HE  TRIUMPH 
OF  TIM 


HORACE  ANNESLEYVACHELL 


/ 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIM 
HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 


By  HORACE  ANNESLEY  VACHELL 


NOVELS 

THK  TRIUMPH  OF  TIM 

SPRAGGE'S  CANYON 
QUINNEYS" 

LOOT 

BLINDS  DOWN 
JOHN  VERNEY 
THE  OTHER  SIDE 

PLAYS 

QUINNEYS* 

SEARCHLIGHTS 

JELF'S 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE  TRIUMPH 
OF  TIM 


AUTHOR  OF  "QUINNEYS',"  "BLINDS  DOWN,"  "JELF'S," 
"JOHN  VERNEY,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO  MY  UNCLE  AND  GODFATHER 

ARTHUR  LYTTELTON-ANNESLEY 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK 


2133477 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  ONE:  WHITE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  VICAR  OF  LITTLE  PENNINGTON 11 

II.    DAFFY    .     .     ^ 28 

III.  IN  THE  HAPPY  VILLAGE 44 

IV.  IVY  JELLICOE 62 

V.    SCOURGINGS 86 

BOOK  TWO:  GREEN 

I.      BUFFETINGS , 105 

II.    DREGS 120 

III.  POPPIES  AND  MANDRAGORA 135 

IV.  AGUA  CALIENTE 151 

V.    MAGDALENA 167 

BOOK  THREE:  BROWN 

I.    SANTA  BARBARA 185 

II.    THE  CHERUB .     .  197 

III.  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW 212 

IV.  DROUGHT 224 

V.    WHEN  TROUBLES  COME 239 

VI.    Aoiosi ..25} 

vil 


viii  CONTENTS 

BOOK  FOUR:    BLACK 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    REHABILITATIONS 267 

\ 

II.      POT-BOILING 280 

III.  ALETHEA 289 

IV.  ACCORDING  TO  LASHER 299 

V.    FORTUNE  SMILES 316 

BOOK  FIVE:    GREY 

I.    SPINDRIFT 333 

II.    JACK 346 

III.  ILLUMINATION 362 

IV.  RECONSTRUCTION 375 

V.    TWILIGHT    ,  390 


BOOK  ONE:  WHITE 


"To  attain  knowledge,  strength,  wisdom,  to  know  life  and  folly  and 
disaster  and  triumph — these  are  the  things,  this  is  youth,  this  is  the  food 
for  the  heart,  for  the  spirit.  To  attain  these  all  sacrifice  is  good,  is  splendid; 
is  not  sacrifice  at  all,  but  a  gift  rather,  a  great  gift.  To  do,  to  be,  to  grow, 
to  put  out  roots  into  the  world  and  suck  nutriment  from  the  living  rock  and 
living  soil!  There  is  naught  else,  children  of  the  sea,  of  the  Island,  of  the 
land  encompassed  by  the  Father  of  Waters!" 

MORLEY  ROBERTS,  in  "Flying  Cloud." 


BOOK   ONE:    WHITE 
CHAPTER  I 

THE   VICAR   OF   LITTLE    PENNINGTON 


THE  Vicar's  name  was  White.  In  Little  Pennington, 
however,  everybody  spoke  of  him  reverentially  as  the 
Vicar.  He  had  succeeded  a  famous  man,  a  poet  and  a 
prophet  to  whose  grave  in  Little  Pennington  churchyard 
pilgrims  from  overseas  still  bring  themselves  and  votive 
wreaths.  Tertius  White  was  neither  poet  nor  prophet.  He 
would  have  made  an  admirable  man  of  business,  a  great 
solicitor  or  administrator,  because  essentially  he  was  inter- 
ested in  the  affairs  of  others.  He  never  sought  preferment, 
reigning  quietly  over  a  Hampshire  parish  bordered  on  the 
east  by  breezy,  high-lying  downs ;  on  the  west  and  north  by 
vast  woods. 

He  was  thirty-five,  when  he  made  a  romantic  marriage, 
running  away  with  the  only  daughter  of  an  Irish  peer, 
an  elopement  which  created  something  of  a  scandal  at  the 
time,  for  the  father  was  furious  and  swore  that  he  would 
never  acknowledge  the  runaways.  Nor  did  he.  But  he  sent 
after  them  a  portrait  of  his  daughter  painted  by  Pynsent 
before  he  achieved  fame,  a  portrait  which  hung  in  the 
parson's  study  above  the  fireplace,  challenging  attention 
because  it  seemed  preposterously  out  of  tune  with  the  or- 
dered harmony  of  that  historical  workshop.  Here  his  prede- 
cessor had  laboured  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
The  pilgrims  regarded  it  as  a  shrine,  because  it  contained 
the  desk,  the  chair  and  the  bookcases  of  the  poet.  Its 

ii 


Timothy 

austere  simplicity  impressed  all  visitors.  There  we^e  many 
books  in  plain  bindings,  a  few  engravings  of  sacred  sub- 
jects, cocoanut  matting  upon  the  floor,  three  Windsor  chairs, 
and  a  large  window  through  which  could  be  seen  a  high, 
carefully-trimmed  yew  hedge  and  above  it,  soaring  into  the 
soft  skies,  the  spire  of  the  village  church.  The  big  desk 
faced  this  window,  and  the  pilgrims  always  understood 
the  significance  of  the  outlook,  the  symbolism  of  the  high 
fence  and  the  inexorable  spire. 

Behind  the  desk  hung  Mrs.  White's  portrait. 

Some  of  the  more  sophisticated  pilgrims  may  have  won- 
dered whether  the  parson  deliberately  worked  with  his  back 
to  the  picture,  now  admitted  to  be  a  masterpiece.  For 
Pynsent  had  painted  more  than  a  portrait.  Tim's  lovely 
mother,  like  Lionardo's  Gioconda,  stood  smilingly  repre- 
sentative of  Woman,  the  dulce  monstrum  of  the  Early 
Fathers,  the  magnet  which  might  lure  men's  souls  to  de- 
struction. The  face  indicated  great  possibilities  for  good 
or  evil.  Half  a  dozen  strokes  of  the  brush  could  have 
made  of  it  a  saint  or  a  sinner.  Herein,  of  course,  lay  its 
attractiveness  and  interest.  This  radiant  creature  had 
bloomed  delightfully.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  she 
had  died  prematurely.  One  realised  that  she  must  still 
live  in  the  person  of  her  child,  for  life  flamed  in  her  eyes, 
the  joy  of  life  so  fierce  a  passion  to  some,  which  must,  one 
is  constrained  to  believe,  survive  the  disintegration  of  the 
body,  an  imperishable  essence  seeking  other  habitations. 

Mrs.  White  died  shortly  after  Tim  was  born;  the  Vicar 
never  spoke  of  her,  not  even  to  Tim. 

The  boy  respected  this  silence,  although  it  informed  his 
childhood  with  curiosity  and  mystery.  The  room  in  which 
the  portrait  hung  became  an  inquisitorial  chamber.  In  it 
Tim  was  called  to  account  for  his  outgoings  and  ingoings 
and  shortcomings.  To  his  credit  he  told  no  lies,  although 
much  of  the  truth  was  sometimes  suppressed.  Generally 
his  father  would  send  for  him  after  breakfast.  His  nurse 
would  say: 

12 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

"You  are  wanted,  Master  Tim,  in  your  pa's  study." 

Invariably,  the  father  would  be  seated  at  his  desk,  piled 
high  with  papers  and  pamphlets.  Tim  would  seat  himself 
on  the  hard  edge  of  a  Windsor  chair,  and  wait  till  his  sire, 
with  exasperating  deliberateness,  laid  down  his  pen.  The 
Vicar,  upon  such  occasions,  spoke  gently  to  the  urchin  in 
a  voice  singularly  sweet  but  impersonal.  As  a  child  Tim 
vaguely  realised  that  this  calm,  slow  utterance  was  irre- 
sistible. Nobody  presumed  to  argue  with  the  Vicar  when 
he  adopted  this  tone,  the  tone  of  a  wise  and  merciful  judge. 
As  a  rule  certain  formalities  were  observed. 

"Well,  Tim,  you  are  in  mischief  again?" 

Very  soon  Tim  learned  that  a  simple  "Yes,"  or  a  nod 
of  a  curly  head,  embarked  him  safely  along  the  lines  oi 
least  resistance. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

This  "we"  was  terribly  disconcerting.  It  implied  fellow- 
ship, the  warming  of  a  small  heart's  cockles,  implying  also 
a  sense  of  responsibility.  To  get  into  mischief  might  be 
to  a  healthy  boy  a  ha'penny  matter;  to  drag  a  saintly 
father  into  the  mud  of  petty  peccadilloes  became  an  odious 
affair,  for  the  boy  knew  that  the  father  would  insist  upon 
doing  what  the  son  might  elect  to  leave  undone.  For  ex- 
ample, Tim  could  remember  the  morning  when  he  refused 
to  apologise  to  an  old  woman  in  the  village  who  had  con- 
fiscated a  cricket  ball  wandering  too  often  into  her  cab- 
bages. Tim  avenged  himself  by  catapulting  a  cucumber 
frame.  Three  marbles  were  found  amongst  the  cucum- 
bers, overwhelming  proof  that  the  misdemeanant  was  not 
a  village  boy,  who  would  have  used  pebbles.  The  Vicar 
pointed  a  finger  at  the  marbles. 

"Ours,"  he  said;  for  he  had  bought  the  marbles  and 
given  them  to  Tim. 

"Yes,"  Tim  replied. 

"We  must  apologise." 

"Sha'n't,  daddy." 

"I  shall.     Come  with  me." 

13 


Timothy 

Important  work  was  abandoned  immediately.  Father 
and  son  marched  down  the  village  street,  hand  in  hand, 
till  the  old  woman's  cottage  was  reached.  The  Vicar  tapped 
vat  the  door 

"May  we  come  in?" 

This  was  the  regular  formula,  acknowledged  by  curtseys 
and  smiles.  The  Vicar  entered  no  cottage  without  permis- 
sion. 

"I  am  here  to  apologise  on  behalf  of  this  young  man.  I 
make  myself  responsible  for  the  damage  he  has  done.  I  am 
sincerely  sorry  that  he  has  caused  you  this  annoyance." 

"I'm  not  sorry,"  said  Tim,  boldly.    "She  bagged  my  ball." 

"Did  you?"  asked  the  parson  quietly. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  warned  'un  again  an'  again.  Seemin'ly,  Mas- 
ter Tim  thinks  that  cricket  balls  is  manure  for  an  old 
woman's  cabbages  an'  cauliflowers." 

"Keep  the  ball  till  he  grows  wiser.    Good-day." 


II 

Tim  was  sent  to  the  village  school  when  he  was  eight 
years  old.  The  squire  of  Little  Pennington  happened 
to  be  one  of  the  last  of  England's  country  gentlemen.  He 
had  been  the  friend  far  more  than  the  patron  of  Tertius 
White's  predecessor,  working  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
him  in  the  development  of  a  great  estate  much  impoverished 
by  the  mortgages  which  plastered  it.  Tim  loved  the  old 
Squire,  a  genial  autocrat  in  a  high-collared  blue  coat,  who 
welcomed  a  schoolboy  as  courteously  as  an  ambassador. 
Great  men  came  to  Pennington  Park,  because  their  host  was 
a  distinguished  scholar  and  Parliamentarian.  Many  won- 
dered why  he  had  abandoned  the  great  world  for  Little 
Pennington.  The  position  of  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons had  been  within  his  grasp.  He  refused  that  and  other 
honours  because  his  estate  needed  him.  After  his  death  a 
tenant  said  of  him :  "I  had  often  occasion  to  ask  Sir  Gilbert 
14 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

some  particular  favour.  I  can  never  remember  his  refusing 
me  without  giving  me  a  perfectly  adequate  reason."  This 
furnishes  a  glimpse  of  the  man.  He  was  an  ardent  Church- 
man and  Tory.  No  Nonconformists,  for  instance,  were  to 
be  found  amongst  his  tenants;  no  Radicals  disturbed  the 
village  peace.  Wisely,  or  unwisely,  this  kindly  autocrat  im- 
posed his  convictions  upon  his  own  people.  He  had  made 
sacrifices  for  them,  and  they  knew  it.  He  had  swept  away 
poverty  and  vice  and  ignorance  from  Little  Pennington. 
He  was  a  Tory  in  the  sense  of  conserving  religiously  what 
he  held  to  be  worth  conserving,  but  he  was  the  first  to 
champion  the  better  education  of  the  masses,  and  to  pro- 
vide out  of  his  own  pocket  first-class  teachers  in  his  own 
schools.  He  encouraged  cricket  on  Sundays;  he  gave  his 
tenants  free  access  to  his  park. 

Tim  was  sent  to  the  village  school  because  Sir  Gilbert 
Pennington  had  chosen  the  schoolmaster.  Here  again  we 
have  a  significant  instance  of  what  example  may  achieve. 
The  village  dominie,  Arthur  Hazel,  refused  in  his  turn  pre- 
ferment, devoting  life  and  energies  to  his  scholars.  The 
village  doctor,  fired  by  this  altruism,  remained  staunch  at 
his  post.  It  seemed  to  be  understood  on  all  hands  that  there 
was  work  to  do  in  Little  Pennington  worth  the  doing.  The 
fame  of  the  model  village  helped  to  sustain  the  standard 
set  by  squire  and  parson,  and  those  under  them.  Even  the 
gentlepeople  in  and  about  the  village,  the  retired  colonels 
and  admirals  and  Indian  commissioners  were,  so  to  speak, 
weeded  out  not  so  much  by  the  squire  or  parson  as  by  the 
force  of  public  opinion.  Undesirable  tenants  wandered  in 
and  out  of  this  charmed  circle.  The  right  sort  (in  the 
Squire's  eye)  remained  whether  conscious  or  unconscious 
of  their  privilege.  Little  Pennington  became  known  as  "the 
happy  village."  Outsiders  might — and  did — scoff  at  the  ad- 
jective. Insiders  smiled  complacently. 


Timothy 


in 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  unkindness,  or  indifference, 
or  even  cruelty,  which  is  the  lot  of  a  new  boy  at  genteel 
preparatory  schools  is  almost  unknown  in  our  National 
Schools.  The  children  in  our  villages  and  towns  are,  with 
rare  exceptions,  happy  at  school,  and  soon  learn  to  like  it. 
Tim  enjoyed  himself  very  well,  and  came  to  an  understand- 
ing of  his  fellows,  boys  and  girls,  which  endured  when  much 
else  was  forgotten.  He  had  the  knack  of  making  friends, 
particularly  with  those  older  than  himself,  and  ran  in  and 
out  of  half  the  cottages  in  the  village.  Moreover,  he  would 
call  ceremoniously  upon  Sir  Gilbert,  and  inform  him  gravely 
that  a  cottage  roof  was  leaking.  The  old  man  listened  to 
his  prattle  with  twinkling  eyes,  and  profited  by  it.  For  ex- 
ample, the  great  house  was  full  of  beautiful  pictures.  Tim 
adored  beauty.  He  would  stand  entranced  before  a  Gains- 
borough or  a  Reynolds  and  repeat  his  intention  of  becoming 
a  painter  of  lovely  women.  One  morning  he  found  a  blank 
space  upon  the  wall  of  the  north  drawing-room. 

"Where  is  the  yellow  lady  ?"  he  asked  of  Sir  Gilbert. 

The  Squire  answered  him  after  his  own  fashion. 

"She  is  building  new  cottages." 

"When  is  she  coming  back,  Sir  Gilbert?" 

"She  will  not  come  back." 

Tim  nodded. 

"You  have  sold  her?" 

"Yes." 

"How  could  you?" 

"Come,  come,  who  told  me  not  so  long  ago  that  certain 
persons  were  thinking  of  emigrating  to  Canada,  because 
there  was  not  house-room  for  them  ?" 

"Did  you  sell  the  yellow  lady  to  keep  the  Panels  here?" 

"To  keep  them  and  others." 

Tim  weighed  this  conscientiously. 
16 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

"It  was  fuggy  for  'em,"  he  admitted,  "but  villagers  don't 
mind  fug  much.  Do  they  know?" 

"Certainly  not;  I  rely  upon  your  discretion  not  to  tell 
them." 

"I'd  have  kept  the  yellow  lady,"  said  Tim  decidedly. 
"Canada  is  a  jolly  decent  place.  The  Panels  wanted  to  go, 
but,  of  course,  in  Little  Pennington  nobody  does  what  they 
want,  do  they?" 

Sir  Gilbert  smiled  grimly. 

"That  is  your  honest  opinion,  eh?" 

"They  do  what  Father  and  you  tell  'em  to  do.  It's 
rather  dull.  When  I  grow  up  I  shall  try  to  please  myself." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Why?" 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  shall  not  be  alive  to  hear  from  your 
own  lips  the  results.  Do  you  feel  very  dull  in  Little  Pen- 
nington ?" 

"Only  when  I'm  very  extra  good,"  said  Tim,  after  a 
pause.  "And  you  see,  Sir  Gilbert,  I'm  very  seldom  good." 

"Original  Sin !"  murmured  Sir  Gilbert. 

Alone  with  the  Parson,  the  old  man  repeated  this  con- 
versation, adding  with  a  chuckle :  "He  is  a  rebel." 

The  father  winced,  sensible  that  Tim's  revelation  had 
been  vouchsafed  to  another.  The  Squire  continued  geni- 
ally: "I  suppose  it's  the  Irish  in  him.  Forninst  the  Gov- 
ernment. The  Sheridan  tincture — what?" 

"Yes;  he  puzzles  me."  After  a  pause,  the  Vicar  con- 
tinued less  calmly :  "What  a  tragedy — this  inability  of 
one  generation  to  understand  another!" 

Sir  Gilbert  laughed;  and  yet  he  had  taken  seriously 
enough  the  fences  between  himself  and  his  sons,  taken  them, 
perhaps,  in  too  big  a  stride.  He  pressed  his  companion's 
arm  with  his  finely  shaped  fingers. 

"A  generation  lies  between  us,  White,  and  I  am  sure 
that  you  understand  me  and  that  I  understand  you." 

'We  are  of  the  same  generation.  I  believe  that  I  was 
born  old.  I  hardly  remember  being  young.  I  mean  by  that 

17 


Timothy 

I  cannot  recall  feeling  exuberantly  boyish.  We  were  very 
poor;  I  had  to  make  my  way,  to  plot  and  plan  for  myself 
and  others.  I  liked  the  struggle;  I  am  not  complaining; 
but — there  it  is.  And  my  experience  discolours  my  view- 
point of  Tim.  I  never  see  Tim  quite  clearly." 

"I  do,"  said  the  Squire  trenchantly.  "What  an  attractive 
little  sinner  it  is!" 

"Too  attractive,"  murmured  the  Vicar.  "He  gets  what 
he  wants  too  easily — particularly  love  and  attention,  quick- 
sands both  of  them,  unless  a  strong  hand  is  on  the  helm." 

"Our  hands  are  not  weak,  White." 

"They  are  growing  daily  weaker." 

"Will  he  win  this  scholarship?" 

"I  think  so." 

Already,  it  had  been  settled  that  Tim's  chance  of  being 
educated  at  a  great  public  school  depended  on  his  wits. 
But  Tertius  White,  who  had  won  scholarships,  knew  that 
Tim  might  be  crammed  cunningly  to  pass  a  given  examina- 
tion; he  could  never  develop  into  a  scholar  or  be  satisfied 
with  a  scholar's  ambitions. 

"And  afterwards  ?" 

The  parson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That  lies  on  the  lap  of  the  gods,  quite  beyond  my  vision." 

"Have  you  not  a  glimpse  of  him  as  a  painter?" 

"A  painter?  Any  form  of  Art  exacts  a  long  apprentice- 
ship. Tim  loathes  drudgery.  He  will  rush  at  his  future, 
leap  into  it  without  looking." 

"We  must  do  the  looking." 

"If  he  will  let  us." 

IV 

Tim  was  twelve  when  his  future  was  thus  discussed,  a 
strong  handsome  boy,  amazingly  like  his  mother,  who  looked 
down  upon  him  with  a  faintly  derisive  smile  whenever  he 
sat  before  the  parson  upon  the  hard  stool  of  Penitence. 

Tertius  White  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
18 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

the  boy  was  really  penitent — intermittently.  He  could  take 
a  caning  from  Arthur  Hazel  with  tearless  composure,  but 
a  deserved  reproof  from  his  father  might  provoke  a  pas- 
sion of  weeping.  Then  he  would  plunge  into  mischief 
again  with  an  uplifted  heart. 

His  resource  confounded  his  elders.  The  Vicar  read 
prayers  before  breakfast,  and  Tim  was  expected  to  present 
himself  in  parade  order.  If  his  appearance  indicated  im- 
perfect ablutions,  or  undue  haste  in  the  putting  on  of  gar- 
ments, he  was  despatched  to  his  bedroom  again.  One  morn- 
ing, the  Vicar's  suspicions  were  aroused,  because  Tim's 
forgetfulness  of  a  hairbrush  or  a  necktie  seemed  about  to 
become  chronic.  Tim,  moreover,  exhibited  disappoint- 
ment when  his  father's  critical  eye  failed  to  observe  the 
deficiencies  of  his  toilet.  Tim  knelt  down  with  a  frown 
upon  his  face.  During  Lent,  the  parson  said  lightly  at 
breakfast : 

"You  wanted  to  cut  prayers  this  morning." 

Tim's  face  betrayed  uneasiness. 

"Last  Wednesday  you  forgot  your  necktie;  to-day  you 
didn't  brush  your  hair.  Own  up !  Did  you  forget,  or  did 
you  want  to  cut  prayers?" 

"I  wanted  to  cut  prayers." 

"Why?" 

"I  do  such  a  lot  of  praying." 

"You  have  a  lot  to  be  thankful  for.  Do  you  grudge 
thanking  me  or  Sir  Gilbert  when  we  give  you  a  good  time  ?" 

"It  doesn't  take  so  long  to  thank  you  or  Sir  Gilbert." 

"We  don't  do  so  much  for  you." 

Tim  rallied  his  wits;  then  he  said  triumphantly: 

"You  and  Sir  Gilbert  just  hate  to  be  thanked  too  much. 
Sir  Gilbert  says,  'Tut,  tut,'  and  you  say,  'Run  along.'  I 
should  think  that  God  got  tired  of  being  thanked  again 
and  again.  I  know  I  should." 

The  Vicar  said  hastily: 

"Well,  well,  you  are  hardly  old  enough  to  realise  what 

19 


Timothy 

sincere  prayer  means,  not  to  God  himself,  but  to  the  one 
who  prays." 

"If  you  tell  me,  I'll  try  to  understand." 

Tim  fixed  his  sparkling  eyes  upon  the  parson's  face,  lean- 
ing his  head  upon  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of  profound  at- 
tention. The  Vicar  accepted  the  challenge  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"Why  do  we  eat  three  or  four  times  a  day?  Because 
we  are  hungry,  because  the  body  needs  constant  nourish- 
ment. It  is  the  same  with  the  soul,  Tim.  It  cannot  ex- 
pand without  prayer,  which  means  far  more  than  thanks- 
giving. It  is  very  important  that  you  should  be  grateful 
to  God,  for  He  has  given  much  to  you,  and  will  require 
much  from  you.  How  will  you  pay  Him  back?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"By  doing  His  will,  by  opening  your  heart,  so  that  His 
Will  may  flow  through  it,  and  direct  your  life  aright. 
Prayer,  apart  from  thanksgiving,  means  communion  with 
God,  it  means  being  with  Him,  it  means  walking  and  talk- 
ing with  Him.  He  comes  when  you  want  Him.  And 
prayer  brings  God  to  earth,  and  exalts  Man  to  Heaven.  It 
is  indeed  the  golden  thread  between  earth  and  Heaven." 

Tertius  White  spoke  quietly,  never  taking  his  eyes  from 
the  boy's  face.  He  could  see  that  his  words  had  produced 
an  effect.  Tim  understood.  He  had  forgotten  his  break- 
fast. 

"Goon!    Please  go  on!" 

"I  have  said  enough,  Tim." 

"Of  course  this  just  settles  it." 

"Settles — what,  my  boy?" 

"I  shall  become  a  parson  like  you,  because  a  parson  does 
more  praying  than  anybody  else.  I  always  wondered  why 
you  were  so  good,  and  often  I've  wondered  why  you  looked 
so— so " 

"Yes?" 

"So  far  away.  You  were  with  God.  I  shall  not  cut 
20 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

prayers  any  more,  daddy,  and  I'll  make  Ernest  Judd  pray 
with  me." 

"Amen !"  said  the  Vicar. 

Tim  hastily  finished  his  breakfast  and  disappeared.  It 
happened  to  be  Saturday,  and  a  whole  holiday.  At  the  end 
of  the  village,  hard  by  the  Pound,  Ernest  Judd  was  waiting 
for  Tim.  A  great  expedition  had  been  planned  involving 
excitements,  a  breaking  of  the  sacred  law  of  trespass,  and 
possible  injury  to  life  and  limb,  for  the  boys  believed,  or 
pretended  to  believe,  that  Lanterton  Wood  concealed  man- 
traps !  There  was  a  real  man-trap  in  the  stable  yard  of 
Pennington  House,  a  monstrous  affair,  enough  to  strike 
terror  into  the  heart  of  the  most  daring  poacher.  Sir  Gil- 
bert was  too  humane  a  man  to  use  man-traps,  and  his  woods 
were  open  to  Tim  and  Ernest.  Really  and  truly,  bird's-nest- 
ing was  better  in  the  Pennington  woods,  because  the  Squire 
cared  little  for  game-preserving,  and  would  not  allow  jays 
and  kites  and  hawks  to  be  shot  by  his  keepers.  But  it 
would  be  senselessly  dull  to  enter  any  domain  from  which 
trespassers  were  not  rigidly  excluded. 

Tim  walked  the  length  of  the  village,  slightly  under- 
studying his  father's  leisurely  stride  and  general  deport- 
ment. He  greeted  all  and  sundry  with  studied  courtesy. 
At  the  grocer's  he  entered  to  buy  a  penn'orth  of  pear  drops. 
The  grocer  sang  in  the  choir,  and  grew  a  silky,  apostolic 
beard.  Tim  admired  him  enormously. 

"Marnin',  Master  Tim." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Benner.    How  is  Mrs.  Benner?" 

"No  better,  pore  soul!  nor  likely  to  be  this  side  o'  the 
grave.  Where  be  going,  Master  Tim?" 

"That's  a  secret,  Mr.  Benner." 

"Up  to  larks,  I'll  be  bound." 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"What  a  queer  little  gentleman  to  be  sure!  Now,  tell 
us  what  you  be  up  to,  and  I'll  give  'ee  better  weight." 

Tim  hesitated. 

"You  sing  in  the  choir,  Mr.  Benner?" 

21 


Timothy 

"Ah!    That  I  do,  and  have  done  this  many  a  year." 

"You  pray?" 

"Most  upliftingly." 

Tim  said  solemnly :  quoting  Sir  Gilbert : 

"I  rely  upon  your  discretion,  Mr.  Benner,  not  to  repeat 
what  I  tell  you.  Ernest  Judd  and  I  are  going  to  pass  the 
day  in  prayer.  Somebody  else  may  join  us.  Good-day." 

He  walked  sedately  out  of  the  shop,  leaving  a  gaping 
and  gasping  grocer  behind  him. 


Passing  the  Pennington  Arms,  which  happens  to  be  the 
last  house  in  the  village,  Tim  broke  into  a  dog-trot.  He 
passed  swiftly  the  meadows  where  plovers'  eggs  might  be 
found  in  early  April  and  pulled  up  pantingly  at  the  Pound. 
On  the  topmost  rail  Erny  Judd  was  sitting,  smoking  a 
brown-paper  cigarette. 

"You  be  late,"  said  Erny. 

"I  know,  Journey,  I've  a  lot  to  tell  you." 

Journey,  a  pleasing  amalgam  of  Erny  and  Judd,  nodded. 
He  could  boast,  with  rare  veracity,  that  he  had  taught  the 
Vicar's  son  to  read.  It  happened  in  this  wise.  Tim  was 
very  backward  in  reading  when  he  joined  the  village  school, 
and  Mr.  Hazel  had  been  duly  prepared  for  this.  He  took 
Tim  in  hand,  and  became  humorously  sensible  of  the  ur- 
chin's indifference  and  inattention.  Whereupon,  being  a 
man  of  parts,  he  said  curtly: 

"I  can't  waste  my  valuable  time  with  you,  Tim.  Ernest 
Judd  will  give  you  a  lesson.  Come  here,  Erny." 

Tim's  pride  was  outraged,  but  Hazel  had  understood 
what  was  needful.  Tim  made  up  his  mind  to  reveal  to 
Erny  and  his  master  powers  of  application  hitherto  latent. 
Erny's  superiority  as  a  reader  of  two  syllable  treatises  was 
soon  rolled  in  the  dust.  Nevertheless  the  boys  remained 
friends,  partly,  perhaps,  because  Erny's  father  was  recog- 

22 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

nised  and  respected  by  scapegraces  as  a  troublesome  and 
incorrigible  character.  He  had  been  a  sailor  before  the 
mast,  returning  to  the  village  blind  of  both  eyes.  He  could 
sing  a  mellow  song,  tell  many  tales  of  sea  and  land,  and 
carry  more  ale  without  showing  it  than  any  man  in  Little 
Pennington.  He  earned  a  few  shillings  a  week  by  playing 
the  fiddle;  and  his  wife,  a  hard-working  woman,  was  head 
laundry-maid  at  Pennington  House. 

"We  ain't  a  going  to  no  Lanterton  Wood,"  began  Tim. 
Alone  with  Journey,  he  used  the  village  vernacular,  aban- 
doning it  in  serious  moments. 

"Why  isn't  us?"  said  Journey. 

"Because  we  be  two  mis'able  sinners.  We  be  going  to 
the  Cathedral." 

"The  Cathedral?  There  ain't  no  nestesses  in  they 
beeches." 

The  Cathedral  had  been  so  named  by  the  poet  and  prophet, 
a  noble  group  of  lofty  beech  trees  in  the  heart  of  Penning- 
ton High  Wood.  From  some  such  group  Bradford  and 
Ransam  and  William  of  Wykeham  may  have  derived  in- 
spiration. The  rounded  trunks  soared  upwards  till  they 
met  overhead  in  Nature's  exquisite  fan-vaulting.  Beneath, 
the  moss  lay  thick  and  verdant.  Aisles,  transepts  and  chan- 
cel were  there  awaiting  the  worshippers. 

Tim  carried  a  brown  paper  parcel  tied  with  string.  Jour- 
ney stared  at  it  interrogatively  with  a  hungry  expression. 
It  might  contain  cake,  apples  and  roly-poly  pudding.  His 
face  fell  when  Tim  extracted  a  not  too  clean  nightgown  and 
a  yard  of  black  riband. 

Tim  dropped  the  vernacular. 

"I  shall  go  into  the  vestry  and  put  on  my  surplice.  You 
kneel  down  and  pray." 

"I'll  be  danged  if  I  do." 

"Look  here,  Journey,  something  wonderful  is  going  to 
happen,  if  you  behave  yourself.  I'm  expecting  Somebody." 

"Who  be  you  expectin'?" 

"God." 


Timothy 

"Gosh!" 

"You  kneel  down  and  pray.     Open  your  sinful  heart." 

"  'Tain't  more  sinful  than  yours." 

"You  kneel  down,  or  I'll  have  to  punch  your  head." 

Journey  dropped  upon  his  knees.  Tim  retired  behind 
a  majestic  tree.  When  he  reappeared  he  was  wearing  his 
nightgown,  and  the  black  riband  made  a  passable  stole. 
Journey  was  much  impressed,  because  Tim's  face  ap- 
peared to  have  changed.  He  looked  angelic. 

"Pray  out  loud,"  commanded  Tim. 

Journey  shut  his  eyes  and  opened  his  mouth.  Prayer 
did  not  come  fluently  to  his  lips,  but  he  repeated  a  formula 
kept  for  special  use  at  school-treats,  when  either  Vicar  or 
Squire  might  call  suddenly  upon  any  boy  or  girl  to  ask 
a  blessing. 

"For  what  we  be  goin'  to  receive  may  the  Lard  make  us 
truly  thankful !" 

Tim  stood  in  front  of  Journey,  gazing  into  the  inter- 
secting boughs  above.  A  squirrel  caught  his  eye.  Instinc- 
tively he  glanced  about  him  for  some  stick  or  stone  to 
throw  at  it.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  prayed  in  his 
turn : 

"Come  down,  O  God,  and  join  us !  You  say  that,  Ernest 
Judd." 

"Come  dowrl,  O  God,  and  join  us." 

Tim  was  trembling  with  excitement.  Suddenly,  he  re- 
membered a  familiar  passage  in  the  Old  Testament. 

"Take  off  your  boots,"  he  commanded.    "And  socks." 

Soon,  they  stood  bare-footed  upon  the  soft  moss.  Tim 
raised  up  his  voice: 

"Come  down,  O  God,  and  talk.     Our  hearts  are  open." 

They  waited,  blinking  through  the  branches  into  the  ethe- 
real blue.  Tim  said  impatiently: 

"Ernest,  son  of  Judd,  your  sinful  heart  is  not  open.  If 
Evarannie  Bunce  were  here !" 

Evarannie  was  the  model  girl  of  Little  Pennington. 
24 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

Journey,  much  troubled,  conscious  of  innumerable  misdeeds, 
said  miserably: 

"It  don't  feel  open,  Master  Tim." 

"You  open  it — quick!" 

"I'm  danged  if  I  can." 

"It's  locked,"  said  Tim,  with  conviction,  "and  you've  lost 
the  key.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Journey,  but  you  must  go  and 
hide  yourself.  Leave  me  here  alone." 

"Ain't  you  afeard,  Master  Tim?" 

"No,"  said  Tim  valiantly.  "Take  these  pear  drops. 
You  can  eat  'em  all.  I  must  fast  as  well  as  pray." 

Journey  took  the  pear  drops  and  vanished.  Looking 
back,  he  could  see  Tim  upon  his  knees,  gazing  upwards.  He 
heard  a  rustling  of  wings,  and  shivered.  A  glance  into 
the  tree-tops  was  reassuring ;  some  wood  pigeons  were  flying 
through  the  beeches.  He  hid  himself  in  a  clump  of  hol- 
lies, and  waited  with  the  patience  of  the  Hampshire  peasant. 


VI 

Tim  prayed  hard,  repeating  all  the  prayers  he  knew, 
and  some  that  were  extemporary.  Finally,  the  conviction 
forced  itself  upon  him  that  his  heart,  like  Journey's,  must 
be  hermetically  sealed.  His  thoughts  strayed  to  Lanterton 
Wood,  lingering  beside  a  pond  where  dabchicks  nested, 
with  a  vigorous  mental  effort  he  recalled  these  vagabond 
thoughts,  dwelling  with  concentration  upon  the  sinfulness 
of  the  Judds,  father  and  son.  If  only  Evarannie  were  be- 
side him ! 

At  this  moment  temptation  beset  him.  Was  it  possible 
to  tell  the  truth  to  Journey?  Journey,  unhappily,  lacked 
discretion.  He  would  tell  the  other  boys,  and  they  would 
laugh  riotously.  In  time  the  girls  might  giggle  as  Tim 
walked  through  the  village  street.  Desperately  he  clutched 
at  Compromise. 

"Ernest  Judd,  come  forth." 

25 


Timothy 

Journey  emerged  from  the  hollies  with  his  mouth  full  of 
pear  drops.  Tim  was  standing  up  in  an  attitude  which 
recalled  the  Vicar  in  the  act  of  pronouncing  the  benediction. 

"Kneel,  thou  son  of  Judd !" 

Journey,  quaking  with  fear,  obeyed. 

"I  have  talked  to  God,"  said  Tim.  This  was  true,  and 
might  save  a  lamentable  situation. 

"You  seen  Him,  Master  Tim?" 

"Thou  fool !  Is  He  not  invisible  ?  I  have  talked  to  Him. 
I  have  asked  Him  to  open  your  sinful  heart." 

"Thank  ye,  Master  Tim." 

"Tut,  tut!     Prayer  is  more  than  thanksgiving." 

"What  happened,  Master  Tim?" 

"I  looked  up  and  saw  light.  I  heard  a  rustling  of  many 
wings.  .  .  ." 

"Them  was  wood  pigeons." 

"Shush-h-h !  We  are  standing  on  holy  ground.  All  the 
sin  has  gone  out  of  me.  I  stand  white  before  the  Lord." 

"That  be  your  name,  Master  Tim." 

Tim  was  immensely  struck  by  this. 

"It's  true;  I  had  never,  never  thought  of  that.  Jour- 
ney, it's  a  sign.  I  shall  be  a  Saint  and  perhaps  a  Martyr." 

"Gosh,  it  sounds  fine." 

"You  shall  follow  me  into  strange  lands.  We  will  baptise 
the  heathen  and " 

"Catch  turtles." 

"Shush-h-h!    I  shall  be  a  bishop,  and  you " 

"Your  man  Friday." 

"If  you  talk  silly  I  shall  take  Evarannie  instead  of  you. 
I  want  to  get  into  your  thick  head  that  I'm  going  to  save 
your  soul,  and  open  it  up.  I  am  going  to  be  a  good  example 
to  you,  thou  son  of  Judd.  Thou  shalt  be  clean  even  as  I 
am." 

"Yes,  Master  Tim." 

"Say— Amen." 

"Amen." 

"You  can  rise  from  your  knees.    Do  you  feel  holy?" 
26 


The  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington 

"I  come  all  over  queer  when  I  seen  you  kneeling." 

"That's  holiness.  I  never  felt  holy  before.  Now  I'm 
going  to  take  off  my  surplice." 

He  slipped  away,  to  return  a  minute  later  swinging  a 
brown  paper  parcel.  In  silence  the  boys  left  the  Cathedral, 
walking  soberly  side  by  side.  Passing  from  the  shade  of 
the  beeches  into  a  sunny  glade,  Tim  said  suddenly: 

"Any  pear  drops   left?" 

"Only  two." 

"Let's  have  'em." 


CHAPTER   II 

DAFFY 


TIM  did  not  remain  sinless  for  any  appreciable  length 
of  time,  although  that  time  lasted  longer  than  was 
qu,ite  agreeable.  For  the  remainder  of  the  Lenten  season, 
Journey  and  he  vowed  solemnly  to  give  up  biting  their  nails, 
but  as  Tim  remarked :  "Didn't  we  just  make  up  for  it  on 
Sundays."  From  Journey's  lips  dropped  highly  coloured  de- 
tails of  what  had  passed  in  the  Cathedral.  A  few  boys 
scoffed,  notably  George  Chalk,  who  demanded  proof  of 
saintship.  Tim  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"Saints  can  perform  miracles  sometimes.  Would  it  be 
a  miracle  if  I  licked  you?" 

George  was  of  opinion  that  it  might  be  almost  a  miracle. 
Tim  licked  him  there  and  then  in  the  presence  of  a  dozen 
boys  and  girls,  including  Evarannie.  Afterwards,  the  con- 
queror held  a  prayer  meeting,  and  prayed  magnanimously 
for  the  soul  of  George,  who  looked  uncommonly  sheepish. 
He  was  a  head  taller  than  Tim,  but  measured  less  round 
the  chest. 

Tim's  correspondence  with  the  S.  P.  G,  and  kindred  so- 
cieties must  be  briefly  recorded.  He  obtained  a  list  of  such 
societies  from  his  father,  and  then  wrote  boldly  demanding 
pamphlets.  The  Vicar  smiled  when  the  pamphlets  came. 
Tim  read  two  of  them  aloud  to  Journey  and  Evarannie. 
Incidentally,  he  slacked  at  his  work.  The  Vicar  was  push- 
ing him  on  in  Algebra  and  Latin  Prose.  When  reproved 
for  an  exercise  full  of  blunders,  Tim  said  loftily:  "The 
disciples  were  not  scholars,  but  ignorant  men.  What  good 
28 


Daffy 

will  Latin  and  Algebra  be  to  me  when  I'm  a  missionary?" 

"Can  the  blind  lead  the  blind  ?"  replied  his  father.  "Igno- 
rance never  converted  ignorance.  Write  that  out  a  hundred 
times." 

Tim  was  impressed.  Next  day,  he  remarked  to  Ernest, 
son  of  Judd :  "I'm  going  to  work  jolly  hard,  because  igno- 
rance never  yet  converted  ignorance,  and  that,  may  be,  is 
why  I  don't  feel  cocksure  of  having  converted  you." 

Journey  sighed  heavily;  he  was  a  backslider  from  Saint- 
ship;  and  he  knew  it. 

Two  years  passed.  Mention  has  been  made  of  the  gen- 
try living  in  and  about  Little  Pennington.  At  each  end  of 
the  village  stood  comfortable  houses,  encompassed  by  vel- 
vety lawns,  whereon  much  croquet  and  tennis  were  played. 
Nearly  every  man,  woman  and  child  who  dwelt  within  a 
two  mile  radius  of  Pennington  Church  was  saturated  with 
the  Pennington  tradition.  It  became  a  matter  of  pride  that 
Penningtonians  thought  alike  upon  matters  that  counted. 
This  Catholic  assimilation  of  a  standard  set  by  two  strong 
wise  men  produced  agreeable  results ;  but  it  had  its  dis- 
abilities for  the  young  and  ardent  impatient  of  discipline 
and  restraint. 

About  this  time,  some  three  months  before  his  examina- 
tion, Tim  fell  desperately  in  love.  In  the  house  known  as 
the  Sanctuary  lived  the  widow  of  an  East  Indian  dignitary 
and  her  three  daughters.  The  two  elder  daughters  were 
pleasant,  unaffected  girls,  much  given  to  good  works  and 
constant  repetition  of  phrases  taken  from  the  lips  of  squire 
and  parson.  The  youngest  child,  Daphne,  promised  to  be 
a  beauty  with  a  will  of  her  own. 

Tim  and  she  studied  the  French  language  under  the  tute- 
lage of  a  French  governess.  Till  now,  the  Vicar  had  no 
cause  to  regret  his  decision  to  keep  Tim  in  the  village  and 
under  his  own  eye.  The  boy  was  clever  and  strong  be- 
yond his  years.  It  was  reasonably  certain  that  he  would 
obtain  a  scholarship  either  at  Eton  or  Winchester,  prefer- 
ably the  former,  because  Winchester  lay  too  close  at  hand. 

29 


Timothy 

And  he  would  hold  his  own,  and  more  than  his  own,  in 
the  playing  fields  as  well  as  the  schools.  Originality  had 
not  been  rubbed  off  by  attrition  with  commonplace  minds ; 
yet  none  could  call  him  prig.  Had  he  been  sent  to  a  pre- 
paratory school  he  might  have  neglected  his  work,  and 
focussed  all  energies  upon  games. 

Daphne  Carmichael — hereafter  to  be  known  as  Daffy — 
was  not  Tim's  first  love.  Emotional  religion,  as  Salvationists 
are  aware,  stirs  the  human  heart  to  joys  described  as 
"evingly"  in  an  earthly  sense.  Evarannie,  that  tow-headed 
model  of  what  little  girls  should  strive  to  be,  captivated 
Tim  for  a  brief  season.  They  promised  to  marry  each 
other  and  live  together  in  a  tree  situate  somewhere  in  Poly- 
nesia. Like  the  excellent  wife  of  the  pastor  in  "Swiss 
Family  Robinson,"  Evarannie  promised,  also,  to  provide  a 
large  bag  in  which  everything  necessary  for  arboreal  com- 
fort would  be  found.  Unhappily,  Evarannie  lacked  imagi- 
nation. Tim  found  her  dull  company.  Journey  hazarded 
the  conjecture  that  she  was  too  good  for  Tim.  Leaping 
hot- foot  from  effect  to  cause,  Tim  decided  that  dullness 
and  goodness  were  twins,  a  conviction  which  discoloured 
appreciably  his  future.  He  passed,  indeed,  through  many 
vicissitudes  of  fortune  before  he  discovered  for  himself 
that  really  wicked  people  may  be  abominably  dull,  and  vice 
versa. 

Daffy  was  not  dull.  Tim  had  to  bestir  himself  mentally 
to  keep  up  with  her  in  the  matter  of  French  irregular  verbs. 
Daffy,  let  it  be  recorded  with  regret,  purged  Tim  of  all  de- 
sire to  become  a  missionary.  This  was  partly  the  fault  of 
Adam  Judd,  whose  extended  wanderings  included  the  Can- 
nibal Islands.  He  had  talked  with  a  Cannibal  Chief !  Ac- 
cording to  Adam  Judd,  cannibals  preferred  black  meat  to 
white,  but  he  was  positive  that  a  plump  young  English 
woman  was  reckoned  gastronomically  to  command  the  high- 
est price  per  pound.  Daffy  was  plump,  and  when  Adam 
Judd  in  her  presence  affirmed  that  the  calves  of  a  young 
woman's  legs  were  esteemed  the  greatest  delicacy  by  Poly- 
30 


Daffy 

nesian  gourmets,  she  declared  her  intention  of  marrying 
an  M.  F.  H.  instead  of  a  missionary.  To  become  an  M.  F. 
H.  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  engrossed  Tim's  atten- 
tion, firing  him  to  sustained  effort  to  win  his  scholarship. 
From  Sir  Gilbert  he  learned  with  dismay  that  it  might  be 
easier  to  become  a  Master  of  Arts  than  a  Master  of  Fox 
Hounds.  Sir  Gilbert  finished  on  a  pessimistic  note : 

"I  gave  up  the  hounds,  Tim,  because  I  couldn't  afford  the 
expense.  Four  days  a  week,  my  boy,  means  four  thousand 
a  year." 

"How  sickening!"  exclaimed  Tim. 

Daffy  compromised  matters  when  her  lover  repeated  what 
the  Squire  had  said.  A  Master  of  Arts  sounded  fine !  She 
would  bestow  her  hand  and  heart  upon  Tim  when  he  took 
his  degree. 

Daffy,  let  it  be  noted,  proposed  marriage  to  Tim,  but  he 
kissed  her  first,  in  the  Dell,  a  delightful  wilderness  at  the 
back  of  Mrs.  Carmichael's  garden.  This  first  kiss  was  a 
great  adventure.  Tim  had  kissed  Evarannie,  and  played 
kissing  games  on  the  village  green,  but  Daffy,  of  course,  was 
a  lady.  Evarannie  did  not  object  to  kissing,  but  she  was 
too  prim  to  kiss  back.  Kissing  her  unresponsive  lips  be- 
came terribly  dreary  work,  and  led,  eventually,  to  a  break- 
ing of  bonds.  Daffy  was  much  more  alluring  than  Evaran- 
nie, and  she  had  a  little  way  with  her,  peculiarly  her  own. 
Tim  felt  in  his  bones  that  Daffy  dared  him  to  kiss  her,  and 
he  prided  himself  that  no  "dare"  passed  him  supinely  by. 

One  blessed  afternoon  he  saved  her  life.  Daffy  always 
affirmed  this  to  be  sober  truth ;  and  it  may  have  been  so. 
Sir  Gilbert  was  entertaining  the  children  of  the  gentry  in 
his  garden,  wherein  stood  a  Swiss  cottage  built  of  different 
woods  grown  upon  the  estate,  the  playhouse  of  his  chil- 
dren and  grandchildren.  In  the  basement  might  be  found 
a  kitchen,  with  a  real  kitchener  in  it  upon  which  could  be 
cooked  a  four-course  dinner.  Cooking  in  the  cottage  was 
voted  by  Tim  a  bore,  because  neither  Daffy  nor  he  was 


Timothy 

chosen  as-  cook,  that  supreme  office  being  ordained  by  the 
casting  of  lots.     Tim  said  to  his  lady-love : 

"Let's  slip  off  to  the  ponds." 

Daffy  hesitated,  because  the  ponds  were  out  of  bounds, 
but  Tim  prevailed.  They  crawled  through  the  shrubbery, 
and  reached  the  boathouse.  It  was  locked! 

"I  can  get  in,"  said  Tim.  "You  watch  on,  and  do  what 
I  do." 

He  crawled  along  the  bough  of  a  tree  which  hung  above 
the  water.  By  swinging  a  bough,  he  just  managed  to  get 
a  leg  upon  the  roof  of  the  boathouse.  Sliding  down  the 
roof,  he  dropped  upon  a  small  platform  at  the  other  end. 

"Come  on,  Daff." 

Daffy  essayed  the  feat,  but  slipped  as  she  swung  upon 
the  roof,  sliding  swiftly  not  on  to  the  platform  but  into 
the  water.  Tim  could  not  swim,  but  he  jumped  after  her, 
grabbing  her  skirt.  With  the  other  hand  he  grasped  a  pro- 
jecting bough. 

Daffy  burst  into  sobs  when  she  found  herself  on  dry  land. 

Tim  reassured  her.  The  gamekeeper's  cottage  was  hard 
by.  The  gamekeeper's  wife,  his  particular  friend,  would 
dry  their  clothes,  and  none  be  the  wiser. 

What  he  predicted  came  to  pass.  The  truants  were  not 
missed.  The  gamekeeper's  wife  justified  Tim's  faith  in 
her.  Daffy,  when  taking  leave  of  Tim,  said  solemnly: 

"You  saved  my  life." 

That  night  Tim  lay  awake  wondering  whether  he  could 
claim  a  kiss.  Next  day  they  met  in  the  Dell.  In  the  Dell 
was  a  cave,  also  out  of  bounds,  for  the  roof  was  falling  in. 

"Come  into  the  cave,"  said  Tim,  boldly. 

"Oh,  Tim,  we  mustn't.    It's  dangerous." 

"That's  why  we  must.  Do  you  think  that  Bilboa  funked 
going  into  a  cave?" 

"Bill  who,  Tim?" 

Tim  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  discoverer  of  the  Pa- 
cific, and  then  said : 

"Come  on." 
32 


Daffy 

Daffy  "came  on."  They  sat  down  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  cave.  Daffy,  lately  introduced  to  Marmion,  and  want- 
ing perhaps  to  demonstrate  to  Tim  that  her  own  reading 
was  becoming  extended,  remarked  cheerfully: 

"If  the  roof  did  fall  in,  I  should  be  buried  alive  like 
Constance  de  Beverley.  She  was  buried  alive  alone.  It 
would  be  some  comfort  to  have  you,  Tim." 

The  coquette  nestled  closer;  in  the  dim  light  her  pretty 
eyes  sparkled.  Tim  made  up  his  mind  to  kiss  her,  but  felt 
ashamed  of  himself  because  he  funked  it.  Daffy  continued 
in  her  softest  voice: 

"You  saved  my  life  yesterday ;  and  I  lay  awake  thinking 
that  you  ought  to  have  a  medal.  I've  got  my  small  gold 
locket  for  you  instead." 

"Oh,  no,  I  couldn't." 

"I  shall  hang  it  round  your  neck,  and  you  will  wear  it 
under  your  jersey.  Nobody  will  know.  Here  it  is!" 

"Daff,  you  are  a  darling!" 

"Please  don't  be  silly.     I'm  serious." 

"As  if  any  fellow  could  wear  a  locket.  Look  here,  if 
the  roof  did  fall  in,  I  should  save  you  somehow.  I  know 
I  should." 

"How?" 

"I  should  bite  a  way  out.  It's  real  jam  saving  you.  I 
almost  wish  the  roof  would  fall  in.  I've  half  a  mind  to 
give  a  loud  yell  just  to  see  what  would  happen." 

"And  get  caught!     How  silly!" 

"I  am  rather  silly  about  you." 

He  slipped  his  arm  round  her  waist.  As  he  did  so,  she 
sighed.  Then  he  kissed  her.  And  she  kissed  him  back, 
shyly  but  unmistakably.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  she  said 
with  conviction: 

"Now  I'm  yours." 

She  explained  fluently  what  she  meant.  A  kiss  exchanged 
between  young  persons  of  opposite  sex  made  marriage  com- 
pulsory. Daffy,  quoting  her  unkissed  elder  sisters,  was 

33 


Timothy 

quite  positive  on  this  point.  She  continued  with  anima- 
tion: 

"Tim,  you  can  kiss  me  again,  if  you  want  to.  Isn't  it 
funny  to  think  that  I  shall  be  Daphne  White  one  day? 
Really  and  truly  you  ought  to  have  proposed  before  you 
kissed  me,  but  it's  all  right  now." 

Tim  blushed,  thinking  of  Evarannie.  Possibly,  some  un- 
written law  of  the  happy  village  might  constrain  him  to 
lead  her,  instead  of  Daffy,  to  the  altar.  Later,  he  put  the 
question  tentatively  to  Journey,  who  somewhat  startled  him 
by  asserting  that  village  girls  thought  nothing  of  kissing. 
When  Tim  replied  hotly  that  real  ladies  were  different, 
Journey  sniffed. 

ii 

Tim  passed  his  examination  triumphantly,  and  became 
an  Etonian.  He  became  also  a  Tug,  of  which  more  will 
be  said  presently.  For  the  moment  he  could  think  and  talk 
of  nothing  except  the  bicycle  which  was  solemnly  presented 
to  him  by  Sir  Gilbert  as  a  "diligentiae  praemium  in  colendis 
literis !" 

In  those  prehistoric  days,  bicycles  were  anathema  to  many 
worthy  persons.  They  had  come  "to  stay,"  they  were  about 
to  become  fashionable,  a  craze,  but  at  this  time  it  was  in- 
conceivable that  a  woman  should  ride  one. 

The  bicycle  achieved  a  notable  purpose.  It  enlarged 
tremendously  a  healthy  boy's  activities,  trebling  at  least  the 
radius  of  his  peregrinations.  Tim  discovered  Southampton 
and  its  famous  docks,  making  the  acquaintance  of  master 
mariners,  and  tasting  rum  and  water  for  the  first  time. 
Many  delightful  hours  were  passed  watching  the  great  ships 
which  sailed  to  and  from  the  Brazils.  He  presented  Daffy 
with  a  parrot,  but  she  was  not  allowed  to  keep  the  bird, 
because  it  enjoined  Mrs.  Carmichael  to  go  to  a  place  never 
mentioned  in  Little  Pennington  outside  the  pulpit!  Ulti- 
mately, the  parrot  found  a  permanent  home  with  the  Judds. 
34 


Daffy 

Adam  Judd  remarked  sentimentally  that  listening  to  the 
pretty  pet  was  almost  as  exhilarating  as  a  voyage  round  the 
Horn. 

For  a  season  tramp  fever  consumed  Tim,  burning  off  the 
moss  of  Little  Pennington,  and  sharpening  the  wits  of  a 
too  home-keeping  youth.  He  told  Daffy  that  if  marriage 
were  denied  him  he  would  become  an  explorer.  Richard 
Burton  rose  brilliantly  above  his  horizon  as  a  star  of  the 
first  magnitude.  Amongst  the  fusty  folios  and  quartos  of 
Sir  Gilbert's  library  Tim  unearthed  that  entrancing  work : 
"Principal  Navigations,  Voyages,  Traffics  and  Discoveries 
of  the  English  Nation,  by  Sea  or  Overland,  to  the  most  Re- 
mote and  Distant  Quarters  of  the  Earth,  at  any  time  within 
the  compass  of  1500  Years,"  by  Richard  Hakluyt,  preb- 
endary of  Westminster. 

Upon  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  Eton,  some  descrip- 
tion of  the  boy  must  be  attempted.  Physically,  he  was  as 
near  perfect  as  may  be,  finely  proportioned  for  strength 
and  speed.  His  features  were  not  too  regular.  Lips  and 
nostrils  finely  modelled  indicated  sensibility.  The  chin  was 
round  rather  than  square;  the  forehead  broad  rather  than 
high.  Add  to  this,  vivid  colouring,  eyes,  set  well  apart,  of 
a  deep  grey  blue,  shaded  by  short  black  lashes,  sun  and 
wind  tanned  cheeks,  white  even  teeth,  ruddy-brown  curly 
hair,  and  the  j oiliest  grin  in  the  world.  Everybody  liked 
the  boy,  because  he,  in  his  turn,  liked  and  was  interested 
in  everybody.  The  famous  statue  which  Cabral  made  of 
him  afterwards,  a  Discus  Thrower,  was  bought  by  an 
American  millionaire,  and  is  less  accessible  than  it  deserves 
to  be.  Rodin,  alone  among  sculptors,  might  have  trans- 
ferred to  marble  the  freshness  and  alertness  of  the  youth, 
his  joy  in  himself,  his  joy  in  others,  his  incomparable 
grace  so  free  from  any  taint  of  pose. 

Sir  Gilbert  and  the  Vicar  discussed  together  the  pro- 
priety of  speaking  without  reserve  of  what  might  await 
such  a  boy  at  a  public  school.  Both  men  were  Puritans 
in  the  best  sense  of  that  much  abused  word.  Certain  evils 

35 


Timothy 

to  them  were  unmentionable.  And  the  modern  father,  his 
son's  pal,  had  not  yet  appeared  in  Little  Pennington.  Tim 
had  been  brought  up  in  a  model  village,  amongst  clean- 
living,  God-fearing  people,  whether  gentle  or  simple.  The 
twig,  in  fine,  had  been  inclined  aright.  It  was  now  a  stout 
sapling  firmly  rooted  in  rich  soil,  likely  to  grow  into  a  noble 
tree. 

Thus  Sir  Gilbert,  wise  in  his  own  generation,  not  so  wise, 
perhaps,  in  dealing  with  another's. 

The  Vicar  hesitated — and  lost  his  opportunity. 

Afterwards  he  realised,  with  poignant  regret,  that  he 
had  overestimated  the  influences  of  the  happy  village  and 
underestimated  Tim's  character,  chameleon-like  in  a  readi- 
ness to  absorb  colour  from  its  surroundings.  He  ought  to 
have  known  that  a  healthy  boy,  bubbling  with  vitality,  tre- 
mendously affected  by  personalities  stronger  than  hislown, 
is  likely  to  turn  from  good  to  evil,  merely  because  any 
change  is  thrillingly  exciting.  The  Vicar  had  good  reason 
to  believe  that  Tim's  upbringing  justified  itself.  The  urchin 
who  slacked  at  Latin  had  become  a  painstaking  scholar ; 
the  boy  too  selfish  in  pursuit  of  pleasure  had  developed 
into  an  affectionate  and  considerate  son.  Accordingly  the 
Vicar  decided  to  let  well  enough  alone. 


in 

Tim  returned  from  Eton,  after  his  first  half,  not  much 
changed  outwardly,  but  somewhat  reserved  of  speech,  re- 
plying curtly  to  the  questions  put  to  him  by  Sir  Gilbert  and 
the  Vicar.  His  affirmation  that  he  was  "all  right"  satisfied 
the  Squire,  who  had  answered  his  own  father  in  the  same 
words.  The  Vicar,  however,  had  doubts  on  the  subject. 

To  Daffy,  under  seal  of  secrecy,  Tim  unbosomed  him- 
self. 

"Eton  is  a  beastly  place  for  Tugs.  I  loathe  it.  If  I  were 
an  Oppidan  it  would  be  all  right.  It's  no  use  jawing,  I've 
36 


Daffy 

got  to  stick  it,  and  make  the  best  of  it,  but  I  tell  you  this, 
Daffy — a  lot  of  fellows  who  call  themselves  English  gen- 
tlemen are  beastly  cads.  Some  of  'em  think  me  a  cad  be- 
cause I'm  a  Tug." 

Daffy  was  much  distressed.  She  kissed  him  and  consoled 
him,  exhibiting  herself  in  a  new  light  as  ministering  angel. 
Her  sympathy  beguiled  from  Tim  further  details: 

"They  found  out  that  I  had  been  educated  at  a  National 
School.  That  was  real  jam  for  them!" 

"How  perfectly  hateful  and  miserable." 

"It  makes  me  wild  with  rage,  but  what's  the  use  of  that. 
It's  part  of  our  great  and  glorious  public  school  system. 
We  Tugs  are  jolly  well  made  to  understand  that  we're  out- 
siders— and  we  are!  We  herd  together  like  a  flock  of 
beastly  rooks.  We  wear  a  filthy  gown.  Damn !" 

"Tim!" 

"I  say — damn!  Why,  there  are  two  brothers  I  know. 
One  is  a  Tug  and  the  other  an  Oppidan.  The  Tug  is  the 
elder,  and  he's  clever  as  he  can  stick,  and  a  nailer  at  games. 
His  measly  brother  is  a  fat  beast  who  spends  his  time 
stuffin'  down  meringues  at  Barnes's.  This  putrid  little  mag- 
got cuts  his  own  brother,  because  he's  a  Tug.  There! 
Come  on  round  the  village.  I  want  to  get  the  taste  of 
Eton  out  of  my  mouth." 

"If  you  told  the  Vicar ?" 

"Never!  I  can't  tell  him  those  sort  of  things.  He  is 
miles  and  miles  above  them.  He  went  through  it,  but  at 
Winchester,  I'm  told,  it's  not  so  bad.  The  Collegers  put 
on  a  lot  of  side.  I  wish  that  I'd  gone  to  Winchester,  al- 
though they  do  get  jolly  well  licked  at  cricket.  Father  paid 
for  his  own  schooling.  Something  to  be  proud  of,  you'd 
think  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  We'll  drop  in  on  old  Adam  Judd. 
I  do  hope  the  parrot  has  not  forgotten  how  to  swear." 

Long  afterwards,  Tim  wondered  sorrowfully  whether 
Daffy's  intuition  had  been  right.  Suppose  he  had  told  his 
father  of  the  miseries  that  consumed  him  ?  But,  then,  such 
confidences  were  rare  between  sire  and  son.  To-day,  so  it 

37 


Timothy 

is  affirmed,  things  have  changed  at  Eton.  A  Tug  has  a 
better  time  of  it.  We  are  writing  of  conditions  thirty-five 
years  ago.  And  the  Vicar's  office  obscured  the  man.  He 
and  the  Squire  towered  above  the  village,  inaccessible  peaks. 
There  was  no  funicular  railway  up  the  Jungfrau,  and  no 
short  cuts  between  parents  and  children,  certainly  not  in 
Little  Pennington,  where  the  Olympians  had  the  heights  to 
themselves. 

Within  a  week,  Tim  recovered  his  high  spirits.  The  vil- 
lage acclaimed  him  as  the  Etonian,  pouring  balm  upon 
lacerated  tissues.  Mrs.  Carmichael  asked  him  to  dine,  an 
unprecedented  honour.  He  was  expected  to  leave  the  din- 
ing-room with  the  ladies,  but  otherwise  he  spent  a  most 
agreeable  evening,  and  heard  himself  toasted  in  a  glass  of 
port  wine.  Daffy  was  not  present  upon  this  memorable 
occasion. 

IV 

It  was,  perhaps,  unfortunate  that  there  were  no  young 
gentlemen  of  his  own  age  in  Little  Pennington,  that  sanc- 
tuary for  the  middle-aged.  Ferrets,  however,  proved  a 
lively  help  in  trouble.  Sir  Gilbert  promised  a  twenty-bore 
gun  at  Christmas. 

The  Vicar  spoke,  with  his  usual  reserves,  of  Tim's  future. 
Tim  listened  with  polite  inattention.  But  he  made  it  plain 
that  he  loathed  musty  quadrangles.  No  scholar's  life  for 
him.  Ultimately,  the  Indian  Civil  Service  with  its  high 
emoluments  became  conspicuous  as  the  right  career  for  a 
clever  and  penniless  young  man.  Daffy's  father  had  been 
a  Commissioner.  Mrs.  Carmichael  was  quite  sure  that  Tim 
could  pass  the  stiffest  exam.  A  chorus  of  ladies  shrilled 
assent. 

Tim  submitted,  although  at  the  moment  his  fancy  had 

swooped  back  upon  painting  as  a  more  agreeable  avenue  to 

fame  and  fortune.    He  had  the  dangerous  gift  of  caricature, 

and  other  talents  which  challenged  attention  and  admira- 

38 


Daffy 


tion.  He  could  pick  out  any  tune  upon  the  piano,  vamping 
a  passable  accompaniment  with  his  left  hand.  And  he  could 
act. 

Admittedly  an  amusing  young  dog ! 

By  this  time  Journey  was  apprenticed  to  the  village 
saddler  and  smelled  of  leather.  He  told  Tim  that  he  hated 
his  job,  and  talked  gloomily  of  becoming  a  horse-soldier. 
Such  talk  was  rank  heresy,  because  soldiers  were  discred- 
ited in  Little  Pennington.  Journey  said  to  Tim: 

"This  ain't  life,  Master  Tim." 

Tim  agreed,  uneasily  sensible  that  Journey,  poor  fel- 
low, had  wandered  far  from  the  happy  village  on  the  wings 
of  his  (Tim's)  too  per  fervid  imagination. 

"What  be  you  a  goin'  to  do,  Master  Tim,  after  you've 
ha'  done  with  schoolin'?" 

"India,  perhaps." 

"I  could  come  with  'ee." 

"Journey,  old  cockalorum,  I  believe  you'll  have  to  stick 
it  out  here." 

"I  be  ready  to  take  the  Queen's  shilling  first." 

"Jump  out  of  the  pan  into  the  fire.  I've  stuffed  ideas 
into  your  poor  old  head.  We  had  jolly  dreams,  Journey, 
but  they  were  only  dreams.  You  talk  about  life.  What 
d'ye  mean, — hay?" 

Thus  apostrophised  in  Tim's  commanding  tones,  Journey 
blushed.  He  was  older  than  Tim,  and  of  coarser  fibre, 
but  the  habit  of  obedience  constrained  him  to  answer: 

"Lard  love  'ee,  Master  Tim,  you  know  better  than  I." 

"I  want  to  know  what  your  notion  of  life  is." 

"  Tain't  on  all  fours  wi'  what  Parson  preaches." 

"I  dare  say  not.    You  let  yourself  rip." 

"A  young  upstandin'  feller  wants,  seemin'ly,  his  bit  o' 
fun." 

"What  fun?" 

Journey  wriggled. 

"It's  mothering  Sunday  here  all  the  time.  Made  for  the 
old  folks,  this  village  wur.  'Tain't  possible,  so  vather 

39 


Timothy 

says,  for  a  man  to  get  properly  drunk  in  Little  Pennington." 
Tim's  gay  laugh  encouraged  the  would-be  sinner  to  speak 

more  plainly: 

"I  be  thinking  o'  the  wenches.    Dassn't  so  much  as  wink 

at  'em  in  this  holy  place.    Smokin'  at  street  corners  is  mor- 

tial  sin,  too.     I  be  fair  aching  for  one  jolly  time." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Tim.     "And  I  •  mean  to  have  it,  some 

day." 


Three  years  later,  he  was  hardly  recognisable,  having 
shot  up  suddenly  into  a  young  man.  Eton  accomplished 
her  easy  task.  Tim  happened  to  be  handsomer  and  cleverer 
than  the  average  Etonian;  in  other  respects  he  conformed 
to  type.  Success  at  football  and  cricket  brought  him  popu- 
larity; inevitably  his  work  was  neglected;  and  the  Vicar 
frowned  when  he  perused  the  reports.  He  said  sternly : 

"Do  you  realise  what  you  owe  to  Eton?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Tim,  with  a  derisive  smile. 

Sir  Gilbert,  however,  was  more  indulgent.  Even  he,  the 
scholar  and  sometime  member  for  his  University,  was  de- 
lighted at  the  prospect  of  Tim's  playing  at  Lords.  Tim 
pointed  out  that  his  place  in  the  Eleven  was  by  no  means 
assured.  He  added:  "Cricket  is  a  tremendous  grind." 

"I  shall  come  up,  give  a  luncheon  and  so  forth." 

But  Tim,  alas,  did  not  get  his  "Eleven."  He  explained 
matters  frankly  to  Daffy,  who  was  bitterly  disappointed  and 
indignant. 

"It  was  blazing  hot  towards  the  end  of  June.  I  took 
things  too  easy.  And  between  ourselves,  the  Captain,  an 
Oppidan,  jumped  at  the  chance  of  keeping  a  Tug  out.  I've 
been  a  bit  of  a  fool  over  this  business.  I  shall  be  in  right 
enough  next  year,  if  nothing  happens." 

"What  could  happen?" 

"I  might  chuck  it." 

"Tim!" 
40 


Daffy 

"I'm  pretty  sick  of  Eton.  Mum's  the  word.  It's  deadly 
to  be  a  Tug.  Eton  expects  that  every  Tug  all  day  shall  do 
his  duty.  The  Oppidans  have  a  slack  time!  Nobody  ex- 
pects anything  of  them." 

He  laughed  scornfully.  When  Daffy  remained  silent  he 
went  on,  even  more  explosively: 

"I'm  so  fed  up  with  trying  to  make  good.    Aren't  you?" 

"N-n-no." 

"Being  a  girl  you  pretend.  Luckily  I  can  unbottle  my- 
self to  you.  I  mean  to  make  you  see  me  as  I  am.  Daff — 
I'm  unregenerate.  I  hate  this  cut-and-dried  business,  this 
shoving  of  other  people  into  pigeon-holes.  I'm  to  be  yanked 
into  the  Indian  Civil,  not  because  I've  any  aptitudes  for 
governing  Hindus,  but  because  it  means  four  hundred  a 
year  as  a  starter — and  perks !  There  you  are.  Of  course  I 
want  to  steer  myself.  But  I've  'nous'  enough  to  face  facts, 
even  if  I  hate  'em.  The  Indian  Civil  means  a  tremendous 
lot.  It  includes  you." 

Daffy  was  now  fifteen,  what  is  to-day  called  a  flapper. 
She  had  remained  Tim's  constant  friend  and  sweetheart. 
Many  persons  scoff  at  love  as  interpreted  by  the  very  young. 
How  serious,  what  an  influence  for  good  or  ill,  it  may  really 
be,  only  the  very  young  know,  and  powers  of  adequate 
expression  are  generally  denied  to  them.  Daphne  Car- 
michael,  not  the  Vicar,  had  kept  pure  Tim's  ideas  and 
ideals  of  women.  She  discovered  this,  and  so  did  he,  long, 
long  afterwards. 

"It  includes  you,"  he  repeated,  "and  the  things  you  care 
for,  the  things  you  are  accustomed  to,  the  things  I  should 
love  to  give  you,  but  I  feel  all  the  same  about  the  whole 
business  that  I'm  tied,  hand  and  foot,  soul  and  body." 

Daffy  retorted  with  spirit : 

"You  need  not  feel  tied  to — me." 

"Can't  help  that,  Daff.  I  am.  For  your  sake  I  toe  the 
line,  but  I'm  famishing  for  excitements." 

"Something  exciting  has  happened  to  us,  Tim." 

She  had  kept  her  great  news  for  the  right  moment. 

41 


Timothy 

"What?" 

"Mummie  has  come  into  some  money.  I  think  it's  quite 
a  lot.  We  are  going  to  leave  Little  Pennington,  and  live 
in  a  place  of  our  own." 

"Heavens!" 

"Of  course  you  will  come  to  stay." 

"This  is  the  abomination  of  desolation." 

"It  may  mean  a -season  in  London  for  me." 

"It  will  be  awfully  jolly  for  you;  I'm  a  beast  to  think 
only  of  myself,  but  I  can't  imagine  this  dull  old  hole  with- 
out you." 

He  spoke  calmly,  but  an  inflection  in  his  voice  made  Daffy 
glance  furtively  into  his  eyes.  They  were  dim  with  tears. 

The  long  summer  holidays  passed  too  swiftly.  Tim  went 
back  to  Eton  the  week  before  Mrs.  Carmichael  left  the 
Sanctuary.  By  this  time  everybody  in  Little  Pennington 
knew  that  Daffy's  mother  had  become  a  rich  woman.  The 
Vicar  said  to  Tim: 

"Those  dear  girls  will  be  heiresses." 

Tim's  face  hardened.  He  was  thinking  to  himself :  "I 
shan't  be  asked  too  often  to  stay  with  heiresses.  Daffy 
will  marry  a  swell.  What  a  beastly  place  this  world  can  be." 

Just  two  months  later,  the  Vicar  walked  slowly  up  the 
gradual  slope  between  the  Vicarage  and  Pennington  House. 
His  strong  face  looked  pinched  and  drawn.  As  he  walked 
he  muttered  to  himself,  almost  senilely.  As  soon  as  Sir 
Gilbert  saw  him,  at  the  moment  when  the  butler  was  dis- 
creetly closing  the  door  of  the  library,  he  exclaimed : 

"My  dear  White,  what  has  happened?" 

The  Vicar  sank  into  a  chair,  saying  brokenly: 

"I  have  bad  news,  bad  news." 

"I  am  too  old,"  said  Sir  Gilbert,  "to  be  kept  in  suspense." 

The  Vicar  nodded. 

"Yes ;  yes ;  that  is  why  I  came  at  once.  Tim  has  been 
expelled  from  Eton." 

Sir  Gilbert  stared  helplessly  at  his  Grand  Vizier,  struck 
dumb  by  consternation  and  surprise.  Tim  was  dearer  to 
42 


Daffy 

the  Squire  than  some  of  his  own  grandsons.  He  became 
fiercely  incredulous. 

"I'll  swear  that  the  dear  lad  has  done  nothing  dis- 
graceful." 

"I  have  no  details.  He  is  in  confinement.  I  have  been 
sent  for  to  fetch  him  home." 

The  Squire  was  eighty,  and  growing  infirm,  but  he  said 
with  all  his  customary  authority: 

"I  shall  go  with  you." 

But  each  knew  that  a  small  heaven  had  fallen  about  his 
ears.  The  Squire's  sons  had  not  been  safeguarded  like  this 
boy.  He  was,  indeed,  the  hope  of  the  village,  its  brightest 
ornament,  a  gem  cut  and  polished  by  two  experts.  The 
Vicar  shivered: 

"How  cold  it  is !"  he  murmured. 


43 


CHAPTER   III 

IN   THE   HAPPY   VILLAGE 


DURING  the  dreary  journey  to  London,  Sir  Gilbert  was 
much  moved  by  the  Vicar's  dejected  silence.  If  it  were 
safe  to  predicate  anything1  concerning  a  friend  of  twenty- 
five  years'  standing,  Sir  Gilbert  would  have  been  prepared 
to  wager  a  round  sum  that  Tertius  White  was  the  last  man 
to  confront  adversity  save  with  fortitude  and  serenity.  He 
found  himself  asking  outright  whether  his  old  friend 
might  be  ill,  but  the  Vicar  assured  him  that  that  was  not  the 
case.  Whereupon  the  Squire  said  with  emphasis : 

"You  are  taking  this  too  hard,  White.  It  is  true  that 
we  have  each  of  us  sustained  a  shock,  but  I  refuse  to  be- 
lieve evil  of  your  son." 

He  expected  the  Vicar  to  lift  his  heavy  head,  to  hold 
out  his  hand,  to  acknowledge  in  some  fashion  a  sincere 
tribute,  spoken  by  a  man  not  addicted  to  flowers  of  speech. 
To  his  amazement  the  Vicar  remained  silent. 

"Rouse  yourself,"  said  the  Squire,  more  sharply.  "Pos- 
sibly you  may  think  that  some  word  on  your  part  might 
have  prevented  this.  Your  actions,  my  dear  friend,  have 
been  more  eloquent  than  any  words." 

"My  mind  is  not  dwelling  on  that.  Don't  press  me !  Be 
patient !  I  would  tell  you  gladly  all  that  is  in  my  heart,  but 
I  cannot,  I  cannot.  The  burden  is  the  heavier  on  that 
account." 

"Very  good,  but  I  repeat  what  I  said  just  now.  Your 
son  is  incapable  of  a  mean  or  dirty  action." 

But  the  Vicar  made  no  sign. 
44 


In  the  Happy  Village 

At  Eton,  the  head  master,  austerely  gowned,  received 
them.  He  was  very  gracious  and  kind,  hastening  to  reassure 
an  obviously  stricken  man : 

"The  facts  are  these :  the  boy  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  but 
he  has  broken  the  law,  and  gloried  in  it.  Between  our- 
selves we  can  speak  of  his  offence  as  an  escapade.  He 
escaped  from  the  College  at  night,  and  was  caught,  slightly 
intoxicated,  in  a  not  too  reputable  tavern." 

"An  adventurer!"  suggested  the  Squire,  attempting  to 
minimise  the  matter. 

Authority  nodded  portentously. 

"One  cannot  make  exceptions.  I  am  sincerely  sorry,  for 
expulsion  is  a  serious  matter.  I  believe  that  love  of  ex- 
citement, nothing  more,  was  at  the  root  of  this  law-break- 
ing. I  will  see  to  it,  when  the  time  comes,  that  the  heavy 
punishment  meted  out  to  him  does  not  imperil  his  future, 
provided,  of  course,  that  he  behaves  himself  in  the  mean- 
time." 

"He  will,"  said  the  Squire  staunchly. 


n 

Tim  returned  to  Little  Pennington,  and  remained  there. 
The  Vicar  spoke  to  him  at  length,  not  unkindly,  nor  re- 
proachfully ;  but  once  more,  with  ever-increasing^  curiosity, 
Tim  realised  that  the  quiet  voice  was  that  of  the  priest 
rather  than  the  man.  Tim  sat  facing  nim,  wondering  why 
it  was  so  difficult  to  believe  that  his  own  father  was  speak- 
ing. He  glanced  upward  at  the  lovely  face  of  his  mother. 
She  might  have  wept,  or  raved.  It  was  inconceivable  that 
she  could  have  spoken  impersonally.  And  yet,  the  Vicar's 
quiet  words  were  intensely  moving. 

"Our  acts  our  angels  are.  No  man  can  escape  from 
them.  They  remain  to  the  end— *•  fateful  shadpws." 

He  sighed,  gazing  not  at  Tim  but  at  the  spire  soaring 
above  the  yew  hedge.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  a  sharp 

45 


Timothy 

doubt  assailed  the  boy,  penetrating  to  his  marrow.  A  man 
may  never  be  a  hero  to  his  valet,  but  he  may  achieve  saint- 
ship  in  the  eyes  of  his  family.  Tim  had  always  revered  his 
father  as  a  saint,  born  with  a  halo  growing  brighter  as  the 
years  passed.  He  wondered  vaguely  whether  this  quiet 
ascetic  priest  could  have  emerged  white  after  scorching  fires. 
Once  more  the  name  White  engrossed  his  fancy.  A  smile 
flickered  across  his  face.  The  Vicar  saw  it,  and  asked 
swiftly : 

"Why  do  you  smile  at  what  I  say  ?" 

"I  don't !"  exclaimed  Tim,  really  shocked  at  himself.  He 
hastened  to  explain: 

"I  was  thinking  of  our  name.  It  does  seem  to  impose 
itself.  You  have  always  been  so  white.  When  I  am  away 
from  you  I  think  of  you  in  a  surplice.  But  you  are  never 
unkind  to  sinners.  Father,"  his  voice  shook  a  little,  "I  am  so 
ashamed  of  the  misery  I  have  caused  you;  I  know  how 
you  feel.  I  have  been  a  beast." 

"We  will  say  no  more,"  said  the  Vicar.  "You  must  make 
a  fresh  start  here." 

"Here?" 

"I  cannot  afford  to  send  you  to  a  crammer's.  Fortu- 
nately, I  have  leisure  to  prepare  you  for  this  examination. 
Sir  Gilbert  will  read  some  Greek  with  you.  He  is  a  ripe 
scholar." 

"I'll  work  like  a  nigger,"  said  Tim  ardently. 

"Good !" 

Tim  left  the  study  with  a  very  lively  gratitude  and  re- 
lief, albeit  uneasily  conscious  that  others  in  the  happy  vil- 
lage might  treat  him  less  leniently.  Alone  in  his  own  room, 
he  wrote  a  letter  to  Daffy,  which  may  be  recorded  as 
expressing  adequately  enough  his  feelings  at  the  moment. 

"DARLING  DAFFY, 

"I've  been  sacked  from  Eton.    It's  the  very  devil  of  a 
business.     Father  has  behaved  like  a  perfect  brick.     He 
is  almost  too  perfect.     I  wish  that  he  could  have  sworn 
46 


In  the  Happy  Village 

at  me,  or  licked  me.  I  slipped  out  of  College  at  night, 
and  was  caught.  I  did  it  for  a  lark,  because  I  was  feeling 
deadly  dull.  I  had  some  champagne,  too,  but  I  swear  I 
wasn't  drunk,  Daff.  You'll  believe  me,  won't  you?  But 
it  looked  like  it,  because  I  laughed  like  a  fool  when  they 
copped  me.  I  couldn't  help  laughing  at  their  solemn 
faces.  Of  course  I  had  to  go,  but  Sir  Gilbert,  dear  old 
man,  has  told  me  that  it  won't  interfere  with  my  future. 
I  am  to  cram  for  the  Indian  Civil  at  home;  and  I  mean 
to  work  like  blazes.  There  will  be  nothing  else  to  do. 
"Write  and  tell  me  that  you  are  not  utterly  sick  of  me. 
"Yours  for  ever  and  ever, 

"TlM. 

"P.  S.     I  am  sick  of  myself." 

By  the  ill  luck  of  things,  Daphne  happened  to  be  away 
from  home;  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  opened  the  letter.  She 
was  a  masterful  woman,  saturated  with  certain  ideas,  which 
she  held  to  be  cardinal  principles  guiding  aright  her  own 
life  and  the  lives  of  others.  One  hesitates  to  indict  this 
excellent  lady.  She  acted,  in  what  she  chose  to  consider 
a  grave  emergency,  according  to  her  lights.  Shall  we  speak 
of  them  as  the  best  wax  candles?  More,  she  took  solemn 
counsel  with  her  elder  daughters,  dear  good  girls  who  had 
never  caused  a  moment's  anxiety.  She  might  have  reflected 
that  Daphne,  in  character,  temperament  and  appearance, 
was  radically  different  from  her  sisters ;  but  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael would  have  replied,  not  without  heat,  had  such  dif- 
ferences been  indicated,  that  there  was  one  standard  of 
conduct  for  all  young  ladies  to  which  they  must  conform. 

A  wiser  woman,  too,  would  have  allowed  her  daughter 
to  see  Tim's  letter.  A  sympathetic  mother,  also,  might 
have  read  between  the  lines  of  that  letter  a  genuine  remorse, 
and  a  poignant  appeal  for  forgiveness  and  tenderness.  Mrs. 
Carmichael,  however,  beheld  with  affronted  eyes  a  love- 
letter  written  by  an  impecunious  young  scapegrace  to  a 
child  of  fifteen,  a  prospective  heiress,  enshrined  in  her  heart 
as  the  likeliest  of  three  darlings  to  make  a  really  satisfac- 

47 


Timothy 

tory  marriage.  She  decided  that  such  a  billet  was  confirma- 
tion of  love-passages  kept  secret  from  her.  And  she  had 
boasted,  poor  woman !  to  other  mothers  that  her  daughters' 
minds  and  hearts  were  as  limpid  pools  into  which  she  gazed 
periodically,  finding  nothing  there  except  what  she  had  de- 
posited herself. 

"It  has  come  to  my  knowledge,"  she  said  to  Daphne,  on 
her  return  home,  "that  there  is  an  absurd,  sentimental  at- 
tachment between  you  and  Timothy  White.  Don't  deny  it !" 

"I  shan't,"  said  Daphne.  "I  love  Tim,  and  he  loves  me. 
What  of  it?" 

Mrs.  Carmichael  frowned. 

"I  beg  you  not  to  be  pert.  Young  White  has  just  been 
expelled  from  Eton." 

"Expelled  ?"  faltered  Daffy,  turning  startled  eyes  upon  her 
mother's  face. 

"Expelled,"  repeated  Mrs.  Carmichael  grimly.  "I  need 
hardly  point  out  to  you,  child  though  you  are,  that  young 
men  of  eighteen  are  not  expelled  from  a  great  public  school 
for  any  ordinary  offence.  Young  White  has  disgraced  him- 
self— and  his  friends." 

"Oh !" 

Daffy  dissolved  into  tears. 

"It  can't  be  true,  mother." 

"Pray  don't  be  silly.  It  is  true.  It  is  equally  true  that 
the  young  man  has  wild  blood  in  his  veins.  His  maternal 
grandfather  was  a  disgraceful  person.  I  can't  discuss  such 
matters  with  a  young  girl,  but  you  may  take  it  from  me 
that  the  dear  Vicar  made  a  terrible  mistake  when  he  chose 
a  wife  out  of  a  family  that  is  a  byword  even  in  the  West  of 
Ireland." 

Daffy  dabbed  at  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Carmichael  continued, 
less  trenchantly : 

"I  am  willing  to  overlook  a  very  grave  deception  on 
your  part,  because  of  your  extreme  youth  and  inexperi- 
ence. I  trusted  young  White,  and  I  trusted  you.  It  is  ter- 
48 


In  the  Happy  Village 

rible  to  me  that  such  trust  and  affection  should  have  been 
taken  advantage  of." 

Daffy  retorted,  not  without  spirit. 

"I  should  have  told  you,  but  you  would  have  said  we  were 
silly  idiots." 

"Quite  true.  Any  lovemaking  between  immature  young 
persons  is  very,  very  silly  and  wrong,  inasmuch  as  it  leads 
to  wilful  deceit.  I  admit  Tim's  charm.  He  charmed  me. 
I  have  tried  to  mother  that  boy.  His  dear  father  has  my 
sincerest  sympathy  and  affection.  More,  I  do  not  say  that 
this  unhappy  young  man  may  not  live  down  this  terrible 
disgrace,  but  it  will  take  years  of  strenuous  endeavour.  I 
cannot  have  him  here  till  he  has  in  some  measure  expiated 
his  offence.  I  shall  write  to  him  in  the  kindest  spirit,  and 
make  that  plain.  And  I  ask  you,  on  your  word  of  honour, 
to  promise  me  that  you  will  not  write  to  him." 

"He  may  write  to  me." 

"That  is  extremely  unlikely." 

"If  he  should ?" 

"In  that  case  I  ask  you  to  bring  his  letter  to  me.  I  have 
no  wish  to  spy  upon  my  daughter,  but  at  your  age  I  have  the 
right  to  open  your  letters,  and  to  deal  with  them  as  I  see  fit." 

"I  won't  write  to  him  unless  he  writes  to  me." 

Daffy  said  this  with  greater  confidence,  because  she  was 
quite  sure  that  Tim  would  write. 

"Very  good.  Kiss  me,  my  child,  and  believe  me  when  I 
add  that  your  welfare  is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  Dry  your  pretty  eyes!  This  unhappy  little 
experience  will  be  fruitful  of  much  good,  if  it  makes  you 
more  careful  in  the  future." 

"But  I  still  love  Tim." 

"Teh!  Teh!  If  he  is  worthy  of  your  affection  and 
friendship,  let  him  prove  it.  And  don't  prattle  about  love, 
which  is  a  very  sacred  word.  A  modest  little  maid  should 
speak  with  more  restraint.  Now,  you  can  trot  away." 


49 


Timothy 


in 

What  Tim  suffered  when  Daffy  did  not  reply  to  him 
may  be  imagined.  His  heart  already  softened  began  to 
harden  again.  It  became  even  more  indurated  when  he  re- 
ceived Mrs.  Carmichael's  letter,  after  some  ten  days  had 
elapsed — 

"My  DEAR  TIM  : — 

"I  take  up  my  pen  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger  to 
reply  to  a  letter  which  you  wrote  to  Daphne,  and  which 
I  am  answering  on  her  behalf.  I  have  had  a  long  talk 
with  the  dear  child.  She  is,  I  think,  fully  aware  of  her 
wrong-doing  and  deceit  in  keeping  from  her  own  mother 
a  sentimental  attachment  which  you  inspired  in  her. 
Daphne  is  a  romantic  little  puss;  and  I  have  dealt  ten- 
derly with  her.  I  desire,  my  dear  boy,  to  deal  as  tenderly 
with  you.  Your  saintly  father  has  written  to  me  a  very 
sweet  letter,  which  I  shall  always  cherish.  I  share  his 
grief  and  bitter  disappointment.  I  share  also  his  convic- 
tion that  you  will  live  down  this  disgrace,  and  rise  upon 
it  to  higher  things,  justifying  the  affection  we  bear  you. 
Hard  work  has  sanctified  his  life,  and  I  pray  humbly  that 
it  may  sanctify  and  ennoble  yours.  But  I  cannot  alto- 
gether ignore  the  weakness  and  frailty  of  poor  human 
nature.  I  must  think  of  my  dear  little  daughter  first. 
And  after  what  has  passed  between  you — Daphne  was 
quite  frank  with  me — I  should  be  lacking  in  my  duty 
as  a  mother  if  I  allowed  you  two  young  people  to  meet. 
I  have  Daphne's  solemn  promise  not  to  write  to  you  un- 
less you  write  to  her,  and  if  you  write  she  has  pledged 
herself  to  bring  your  letter  to  me  before  she  answers  it. 
My  faith  in  you,  sorely  tried  as  it  has  been,  is  still  strong 
enough  to  justify  my  conviction  that  you  will  not  write 
to  my  little  maid,  or  attempt  to  see  her  against  my  ex- 
pressed wish.  Your  father  does  not  know — and  I  shall 
not  tell  him — of  your  attachment  to  Daphne.  If  he  did, 
he  would,  you  may  be  sure,  exact  some  pledge  from 
you.  I  prefer,  instead,  to  leave  the  matter  to  your  own 
50 


In  the  Happy  Village 

pride  and  good  feeling.  I  look  forward  to  the  day  when 
you  can  come  again  to  us,  and  reinstate  yourself  in  our 
hearts. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"ANNA  CARMICHAEL." 


Tim  used  bad  language  when  he  read  and  reread  this 
epistle.  Daffy — he  leapt  to  this  conclusion — was  like  other 
girls,  cut  to  pattern,  terrified  by  a  tempest  in  a  tea-pot,  docile 
to  Authority — a  dear  anaemic  little  puss ! 

He  rushed  hatless  into  Pennington  High  Wood. 

It  was  a  cheerless  afternoon  in  late  November.  In  the 
air  hung  an  odour  of  decay ;  on  the  ground  lay  the  rotting 
leaves ;  from  the  bleak  branches  overhead  dripped  the  tears 
of  a  dying  November. 

Presently,  he  found  himself  in  the  Cathedral  upon  the 
spot  where  Journey  and  he  had  knelt  together  invoking  Om- 
nipotence to  join  them.  Tim  stood  still,  staring  upwards 
with  a  derisive  smile  upon  his  white  haggard  face.  Yes ; 
he  had  believed  that  God  would  come  down  and  talk  with 
him. 

And  now? 

A  strange  impulse  surged  within  him  to  call  upon  the 
Devil !  The  Vicar  believed  in  a  personal  Devil.  And  Tim, 
ever  greedy  of  new  and  curious  knowledge,  had  read  some- 
thing concerning  the  Diabolists. 

Controlling  the  insane  desire  to  invoke  the  Supreme 
Power  of  Evil,  Tim  flung  himself  upon  the  wet  moss  and 
burst  into  tears,  bitter  grinding  sobs,  the  expression  of  all 
that  he  had  suppressed  during  the  past  fortnight.  Mightily 
relieved  by  this  ebullition,  he  stood  upright  again,  and  con- 
fronted more  calmly  the  situation,  glancing  to  right  and 
left  in  terror  lest  some  passing  woodman  might  have  wit- 
nessed his  weakness.  Then  he  read  Mrs.  Carmichael's  let- 
ter for  the  third  time. 

Anybody,  save  a  dashing  youth,  would  have  questioned 
its  cleverness  and  sincerity.  Tim,  however,  accepted  every 

51 


Timothy 

line  in  the  spirit — so  the  writer  would  have  said — in  which 
it  was  penned.  By  his  own  act,  he  had  cut  himself  off 
from  Daphne  and  her  people.  They  were  very  nice  people ; 
he  knew  that;  and  other  really  nice  people — corroding 
thought! — would  regard  him,  as  the  Carmichaels  did,  with 
slightly  averted  eyes.  Sunday,  with  the  residents  of  the  vil- 
lage streaming  out  of  morning  church,  had  been  a  bleak 
experience.  Nobody  had  cut  him  because,  of  course,  he 
was  his  father's  son,  but  each  blameless  worshipper  had 
blinked,  beholding  him  as  the  black  sheep  in  a  happy  fold. 
Sir  Gilbert  had  taken  his  arm/  and  leaned  heavily  upon 
it,  subtly  suggesting  the  appeal  of  age  to  youth.  Sir  Gil- 
bert— God  bless  the  old  boy! — had  done  his  best  to  white- 
wash his  offence.  Nevertheless,  Tim  stood  discoloured  in 
the  eyes  of  the  congregation,  lending  even  a  tinge  of  purple 
to  the  whiteness  of  his  father's  surplice.  Adam  Judd,  who 
attended  divine  service  from  eleemosynary  motives,  chuck- 
led as  he  passed  a  fellow  sinner.  Evarannie  blushed,  con- 
scious of  a  too  intimate  lip-service  with  a  backslider. 

But  Tim  had  brazened  it  out,  carrying  a  high  head,  con- 
fident that  his  Daphne  would  not  fail  him,  that  she  would 
know  and  understand. 

Why,  why  had  she  not  written  to  him  herself? 

He  choked  down  humiliation  together  with  some  freshly 
rising  sobs.  There  must  be  no  more  weeping;  let  him  con- 
tent himself  with  gnashing  of  teeth.  But  his  dominant 
thought  was  that  of  wrath  against  ladies.  He  could  forgive 
Evarannie  for  blushing;  the  demure,  downcast  glances  of 
the  gentlewomen  infuriated.  What  humbugs  and  hypocrites 
they  all  were ! 

He  wondered  whether  the  Vicar  had  preached  at  him, 
dismissing  such  speculation  as  idle  and  unworthy.  The 
theme  of  the  Sunday  morning's  sermon  happened  to  be  Eter- 
nal Punishment,  a  doctrine  quite  irreconcilable  with  Tim's 
somewhat  amorphous  conceptions  of  Divine  Love  and 
Mercy.  The  Vicar  could  handle  such  themes  with  dexterity. 
He  did  not  belong  to  the  fire  and  brimstone  school  of  or- 
52 


In  the  Happy  Village 

atory,  but  always  he  dwelt  persistently  upon  the  unbridg- 
able  gulfs  between  Heaven  and  Hell,  the  ineffable  rapture 
of  being  with  God,  the  everlasting  torment  of  those  cast 
out  of  His  Presence. 

As  a  boy  Tim  had  conceived  Heaven  to  be  a  sort  of 
glorified  Little  Pennington,  embellished  by  golden  crowns 
and  a  crystal  sea. 

Now,  struggling  with  his  own  conflicting  emotions,  a 
prey  to  the  civil  war  which  sooner  or  later  devastates  so 
many  hearts,  he  attempted  to  see  himself  with  proper  de- 
tachment. Did  he  incline  towards  the  sheep  or  the  goats? 
Sheep  were  dull  creatures ;  and  goats  smelt  abominably. 
Small  wonder  that  the  nymphs  in  the  classics  fled  from  the 
satyrs  ? 

He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  neither  sheep  nor 
goat,  a  hybrid,  like  the  Alpaca.  Was  there  an  Alpaca  in 
the  Zoo?  If  so,  he  must  have  a  look  at  it. 


IV 

He  answered  Mrs.  Carmichael's  letter  with  restraint,  ac- 
cepting the  conditions  imposed.  She  had  not  appealed  in 
vain  to  his  pride.  Then  he  plunged  into  dogged  work. 

Somewhat  to  his  dismay,  not  to  mention  the  Vicar's,  Tim 
soon  discovered  that  he  knew  less — from  the  point  of  view 
of  passing  stiff  examinations — than  when  he  won  his  schol- 
arship at  Eton.  The  Vicar  remarked  to  Sir  Gilbert:  "I 
never  had  a  pupil  who  seemed  to  know  more,  and  who  really 
knew  less."  Nothing  daunted,  Tim  set  to  work  again  at 
principia,  which  he  mastered  with  gratifying  ease  and  dili- 
gence. 

Sir  Gilbert  was  very  kind  to  him,  mounting  him  occa- 
sionally for  a  day  with  the  Little  Pennington  hounds,  and 
giving  him  many  a  day's  shooting  in  outlying  coverts  and 
hedgerows :  sport  which  whetted  an  appetite  instead  of  sat- 
isfying it.  Tim  could  not  help  envying  the  sons  of  mag- 

53 


Timothy 

nates  to  whom  hunting  and  shooting  were  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  life.  About  this  time,  his  acquaintance  with  the 
son  of  a  neighbouring  parson  ripened  into  friendship.  Not 
far  from  Little  Pennington  was  a  hamlet  which  took  its 
tone  from  the  happy  village.  The  parson  happened  to  be  a 
friend  of  Tertius  White,  and  like  him  a  poor  man.  His 
son,  also,  had  won  scholarships,  but,  unlike  Tim,  this  scholar 
had  a  love  of  scholarship  for  its  own  sake.  He  was  des- 
tined from  early  youth  to  become  either  pedagogue  or 
parson,  probably  the  latter,  for  much  zeal  informed  him. 
He,  too,  owned  a  bicycle,  and  the  young  men  spent  many 
hours  together  scouring  the  hills  and  dales  of  Hampshire. 
Eustace  Pomfret  took  himself  seriously,  a  source  of  much 
amusement  to  Tim,  and  was  almost  a  genius  in  devising 
schemes  of  self-culture  upon  a  monumental  scale.  His  life 
— so  Tim  reckoned — was  cut-and-dried  from  the  font;  and 
he  endeavoured  not  unsuccessfully  to  impress  upon  Tim 
the  necessity  of  ordering  even  the  most  humdrum  existence 
so  as  to  exclude  the  interference  of  the  Devil.  That  his 
influence  over  Tim  was  entirely  for  good  may  be  ques- 
tioned. Counsels  of  perfection  wearied  our  hero.  Never- 
theless he  liked  Eustace,  and  envied  him  his  powers  of  con- 
centration, calling  him  "The  Plodder"  to  his  face,  and  be- 
hind his  back  "The  Sap  that  never  Rises."  The  Plodder 
was  very  bashful  in  the  presence  of  the  fair,  and  seemingly 
quite  proof  against  their  allurements.  His  weakness — he 
admitted  this  to  Tim — was  Gothic  architecture.  When  he 
pursued  his  hobby  too  untiringly  into  dusty  transepts,  Tim 
would  say  derisively: 

"I'd  sooner  look  at  a  pretty  girl." 

"You  will  repeat  that  till  you  believe  it." 

"Because  I'm  normal.    You're  sexless." 

"I'm  not.  I  suppose,  when  I  can  afford  it,  I  shall  marry, 
as  my  father  did.  Till  that  time  comes,  the  less  one  thinks 
about  pretty  girls  the  better." 

"Girls  could  teach  you  a  lot." 
54 


*   In  the  Happy  Village 

"What  have  they  taught  you,  Tim?" 

Then  Tim  would  laugh  scornfully,  and  refuse  to  reply. 


Ash  Wednesday  ushered  in  Lent  and  the  godly  discipline 
of  the  Commination  Service,  attended  by  all  the  gentlefolk 
and  many  humbler  parishioners.  Tim  was  greatly  impressed 
by  the  unction  with  which  mild-mannered  spinsters  an- 
swered "Amen"  to  the  judgments  of  Omnipotence  against 
sinners.  One  ancient  virgin  positively  barked  her  response 
with  an  inflection  of  impatient  finality  which  tickled  the 
boy's  humour.  He  was  reminded  of  a  billiard  marker  in 
one  of  the  Winchester  taverns,  who,  calling  the  score  at 
Pool,  would  yap  out:  "Yellow — dead!"  in  a  manner  that 
made  the  hope  of  starring  quite  forlorn.  Tim  wondered 
whether  these  worthy  women  really  gloated  over  this  whole- 
sale cursing,  as  they  appeared  to  do.  Miss  Janetta  Van- 
burgh,  the  spinster  aforesaid,  conveyed  to  Tim  the  con- 
viction that  she  had  become  so  intolerant  of  sinners  that  she 
wished  them  cursed  and,  so  to  speak,  cast  as  rubbish  to  the 
void  without  any  more  ado.  Her  shrill,  staccato  "Amen," 
invariably  an  instant  ahead  of  the  congregation,  weighed 
heavily  upon  Tim's  nerves.  Under  his  breath  he  cursed 
her,  realising  with  some  contrition  that  he  had  thereby  low- 
ered himself  to  her  level. 

Music,  more  than  anything  else,  nourished  Tim's  emo- 
tional sense  of  religion.  His  old  Dominie,  who  played  the 
organ  beautifully,  had  trained  the  choir  to  sing  simple  hymns 
with  feeling  and  distinction.  At  Evensong,  especially,  when 
Tim  sat  in  his  pew  in  the  dimly  lighted  church,  gazing  at 
the  altar  which  alone  was  brilliantly  illuminated,  seeing 
the  Vicar's  fine  head,  with  its  placid  and  yet  austere  expres- 
sion, glancing  too  at  the  many  faces  familiar  from  child- 
hood, there  would  sweep  into  his  mind  a  passionate  desire  to 

55 


Timothy 

achieve  saintliness.    At  such  moments  John  Newman's  hymn 
would  move  him  profoundly — 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on ; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 

He  would  say  to  himself  that  this  church  was  home  to 
many  of  the  worshippers  therein.  They  had  found  the 
Light.  His  eyes  would  rest  with  envy  and  affection  upon 
the  sweet  face  of  the  schoolmistress,  Mary  Nightingale, 
who  never  complained  that  the  church  was  ill-lighted,  be- 
cause she  knew  all  the  psalms  by  heart.  The  girls  of  the 
village  owed  a  deep  debt  to  Mary  Nightingale.  What  a 
beacon  she  had  been!  Some  of  the  Penningtonians  had 
gained  the  farther  shore,  after  wading  through  torrents. 
There  was  old  Whetren,  the  sexton.  The  Vicar  wrestled 
long  for  Whetren's  soul,  and  had  prevailed.  Benner,  with 
his  apostolic  beard,  had  known  a  stormy  youth.  Tim  went 
to  Benner  and  asked  him  if  he  understood  all  that  the  Vicar 
said.  Benner  shook  his  head. 

"It's  like  this,  Master  Tim,  I  find  his  voice  upliftin',  yes,  I 
do,  even  when  I  misses  the  words  and  meanin'.  And  then 
I  takes  a  mort  o'  comfort  lookin'  at  they  beautiful  glass 
winders." 

The  stained  glass  in  Little  Pennington  Church  was  an 
atrocious  sample  of  mid- Victorian  taste.  Tim  chuckled : 

"Well,  Benner,  I  have  always  wondered  why  that  glass 
was  put  in.  Now  I  know." 

During  Lent  there  were  many  services.  In  his  robuster 
moments,  after  the  Sunday  luncheon — when  everybody  in 
Little  Pennington  feasted  heavily — Tim  would  be  tempted 
to  indict  this  wholesale  fasting  as  an  orgy  of  righteous- 
ness. The  women  seemed  to  wallow  in  self-denial.  Really, 
it  afforded  them  pleasure,  not  pain,  to  mortify  the  flesh. 
Why  not  stick  to  butter  and  cream,  and  give  up  gossip? 
56 


In  the  Happy  Village 

The  Vicar,  remarking  Tim's  too  pale  face,  prescribed  a 
change  of  air  and  scene  after  Easter. 

"You  have  worked  finely,  Tim.  I  insist  upon  a  holiday. 
Go  abroad  for  a  full  month  and  brush  up  your  French." 

Eustace  Pomfret  accompanied  him.  This  oddly  assorted 
pair  crossed  the  channel  to  Havre,  and  thence  cycled  up 
the  Seine,  and  down  the  Loire,  visiting  Rouen,  Dreux, 
Evreux,  Chartres,  and  the  Touraine  chateaux.  Tim  was  in 
the  highest  health  and  spirits,  ready  to  ride  eighty  miles 
a  day.  Eustace  preferred  to  linger  in  the  cathedrals.  Ulti- 
mately they  reached  Concarneau,  famous  for  its  sardine 
fisheries  and  a  small  colony  of  artists.  They  spent  a  week 
there;  and  Tim  was  once  more  bitten  with  the  desire  to 
become  a  painter.  At  Concarneau,  he  met  Cabral,  the  sculp- 
tor, and  Briand,  the  painter  of  grey  skies  and  seas.  He 
could  hardly  tear  himself  from  their  exciting  company. 
Eustace  was  not  favourably  impressed  by  these  Bohemians, 
and  affected  to  disdain  their  conversation,  quoting  Mathew 
Arnold — "Conduct  is  three-fourths  of  life." 

In  those  simple  times  no  railroad  brought  tourists  to 
Concarneau.  The  artists  fared  sumptuously,  wine  and  cider 
included,  for  four  francs  per  diem  or  one  hundred  francs 
per  mensem.  Cabral  said : 

"On  mene  la  vie  heureuse,  mon  gargon." 

"Wee,  wee,"  replied  Tim,  who  chattered  French  fluently, 
but  with  an  atrocious  accent. 

"Tu  reviendras — hein  ?" 

"Wee." 

On  departure,  Tim  was  embraced  on  both  cheeks  by  the 
patronne  of  the  Hotel  des  Voyageurs.  The  bonnes,  in  the 
coif  and  collar  of  the  commune,  were  smilingly  ready  to 
salute  him  in  the  same  early  Christian  fashion,  but  Eustace 
stood  scowlingly  by — Saint  Anthony  in  knickerbockers. 
Cheers  sped  the  travellers  on  their  way. 

"Heavenly  place,"  said  Tim. 

"Smelly,"  riposted  Saint  Anthony. 

"Dear,  delightful  people,"  sighed  Tim. 

57 


Timothy 

"Brazen  hussies,"  murmured  the  Saint. 

Tim  laughed. 

"They  didn't  offer  to  embrace  you,  Old  Plodder." 

Eustace  remarked  solemnly: 

"I  thank  God  that  I  am  not  too  good-looking." 

"I  can  thank  God  that  I  am  not  too  good." 

Whereupon  the  Plodder  preached  a  short  homily,  while 
Tim  thought  hungrily  of  the  smiling  faces  which  he  was 
leaving  behind  him. 

They  took  the  packet  from  Saint  Malo.  Eustace  had 
nicely  calculated  his  expenses,  arriving  at  Southampton  with 
just  enough  in  his  purse — he  carried  a  purse — to  pay  for 
breakfast.  Tim  went  aboard  penniless,  and  was  obliged  to 
offer  his  bicycle  to  the  purser  as  security  against  his  fare. 
The  purser,  however,  cheerily  consented  to  trust  him,  when 
Tim  stated  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  Vicar  of  Little  Pen- 
nington.  Eustace  asked  drily: 

"Why  have  you  not  sufficient  money?" 

Tim  confessed. 

"I  nipped  into  the  casino  at  Dinard,  and  dropped  thirty 
bob  at  petits  chevaux." 

"Gambling?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  Votive  offerings  to  the  goddess  of  For- 
tune. She  will  smile  upon  me  next  time." 

"I  hope  there  will  be  no  next  time." 

"Rot !  Everybody  gambles  in  some  form  or  another.  It 
was  jolly  good  fun." 

"At  your  father's  expense." 

"Pish!  Tut!  Pooh!  I  shall  pop  the  gold  links  Sir  Gil- 
bert gave  me." 

And  he  did  so. 

VI 

The  Vicar  stared  hard  at  Tim  when  he  reached  Little 
Pennington. 

"The  pleasant  land  of  France  has  agreed  with  you,  Tim." 
"In  all  my  life  I  have  never  been  so  happy." 
58 


In  the  Happy  Village 

The  words  slipped  from  his  sniiling  mouth.  Instantly 
he  cursed  himself  for  an  ingrate ;  but  the  Vicar  nodded  ab- 
sently. Tim,  very  red  in  the  face,  stammered  out: 

"All  the  same,  it's  jolly  to  be  home  again." 

He  scampered  round  the  village,  dashing  in  and  out  of 
the  cottages  with  a  cheery  word  for  everybody.  Journey, 
still  smelling  of  leather,  asked  many  questions. 

"You  be  brown  as  a  berry,  Master  Tim." 

"Glorious  sunshine,  Journey.  Blazing  on  the  long  white 
roads;  blazing  on  the  faces  of  the  people." 

"Yas ;  you've  a  warm  look,  Master  Tim.  Comes  o'  seein' 
the  world.  Is  they  French  maids  as  gay  as  I've  heerd  on?" 

"Gay  of  heart,  Journey.     I  fell  in  love  with  all  of  'em." 

"Lard  bless  'ee,  Master  Tim !  And  they  fell  in  love  with 
'ee,  I'll  go  bail." 

"Luckily  for  me,  I'd  my  guardian  angel  with  me.  Mr. 
Eustace  Pomfret." 

"I  think  nothing  of  he.  Wonnerful  greenish  young  gen- 
tleman, to  be  sure !  They  French  maids  had  no  truck  with 
him,  I'll  wager  a  pot  of  ale  on  that." 

Tim  smote  his  thigh,  exclaiming: 

"By  Jove!     Why  didn't  I " 

"What,  Master  Tim  ?" 

"Why  didn't  I  egg  one  of  the  little  dears  on  to  make  eyes 
at  him  ?  What  larks  it  would  have  been !" 

He  laughed  riotously,  beholding  Saint  Anthony  resisting 
temptation. 

"Any  news,  Journey?" 

"Never  is  no  news  here,"  grumbled  Journey.  "There  be 
a  rare  pretty  maid  at  the  Vicarage,  come  from  Lanterton, 
she  do." 

"From  Lanterton?" 

Lanterton  enjoyed  an  unsavoury  reputation.  It  was  not 
easy  for  a  Lanterton  girl  to  find  a  respectable  place. 

"Yas;  my  granfer  he  say  that  in  ancient  times  Little 
Pennington  was  even  worse  than  Lanterton.  Granfer  do 

59 


Timothy 

chuckle  to  hisself  when  he  talks  o'  they  brave  old  days. 
Yas ;  she  be  a  rare  pretty  maid,  Master  Tim." 

Tim  said  gravely : 

"Journey,  you're  an  old  friend,  but  you  mustn't  take 
liberties.  It's  absolutely  nothing  to  me  whether  there  is  a 
pretty  maid  at  the  Vicarage  or  not.  Do  you  understand?" 

"No  offence,  Master  Tim.  My  tongue  do  run  away  wi' 
my  wits  when  I  be  talkin'  with  Jee." 

Tim  laughed,  and  went  his  way  whistling.  Journey  picked 
up  his  awl  as  he  muttered : 

"The  pretty  maids  '11  come  to  his  whistling.  Lard 
A'mighty!  what  a  fine  upstandin'  young  feller  he  do  be!" 

Tim  returned  to  the  Vicarage  in  time  for  luncheon,  and 
entered  the  house,  as  was  his  wont,  by  the  back-door.  Pass- 
ing the  kitchen,  he  heard  a  gay  laugh,  a  silvery  ripple  of 
joyous  sound.  He  hesitated,  and  then  opened  the  kitchen 
door.  Perched  upon  the  dresser  sat  the  maid  from  Lan- 
terton.  When  she  beheld  Tim,  .she  sprang  to  the  floor, 
stood  upright  for  an  instant,  and  then  bobbed  down  in  a 
demure  curtsey,  but  her  eyes  twinkled  roguishly.  Tim 
greeted  the  cook,  an  old  friend.  Then  he  turned  to  the  new 
maid. 

"And  who  is  this?"  he  asked. 

"Ivy  Jellicoe,"  replied  the  cook. 

The  name  Jellicoe  struck  Tim  as  familiar.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  there  was  a  bold  poacher  called  Jack  Jellicoe 
who  had  been  caught  red-handed  after  a  desperate  encounter 
with  a  keeper.  Jellicoe  had  been  sent  to  Winchester  gaol. 
The  cook,  reading  his  thoughts,  and  quite  regardless  of  the 
newcomer's  feelings,  said  with  unction: 

"She  be  Jack  Jellicoe's  daughter,  Master  Tim." 

"Oh!"  said  Tim. 

Ivy  smiled  deprecatingly,  displaying  an  even  row  of 
very  white  small  teeth.  Her  eyelids  fell.  Tim  could  not 
fail  to  remark  how  long  and  dark  lay  the  lashes  upon  her 
delicate  cheeks,  and  he  perceived  also,  with  an  artist's  eye, 
that  her  features  were  finely  modelled.  Truly,  a  rare  pretty 
60 


In  the  Happy  Village 

maid,  as  Journey  had  said.     Instinctively,  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Ivy?    I  hope  you  will  be  happy  here." 
She  raised  her  eyelids,  flashing  at  him  a  glance  com- 
pounded of  gratitude  and  admiration.    Then  she  slipped  her 
hand  into  his,  murmuring  bashfully : 
"Thank  you,  sir.    I  do  hope  so,  sir." 


61 


CHAPTER   IV 

IVY    JELLICOE 


THE  Vicar  was  agreeably  surprised  by  the  ardour  with 
which  Tim  pursued  his  studies  after  the  holiday  in 
France.  He  had  never  questioned  the  boy's  brains,  doubt- 
ing only  sustained  powers  of  application.  And  now  he  was 
able  to  assure  Sir  Gilbert — who,  indeed,  needed  no  such 
assurance — that  the  coveted  prize  was  well  within  their  pu- 
pil's grasp.  One  lovely  morning,  in  late  May,  when  the 
lime  trees  in  the  churchyard  were  bursting  into  flower,  the 
Vicar  took  Tim's  hand  in  his  and  congratulated  him  with 
a  warmth  of  feeling  which  made  Tim  gasp.  A  note  of 
personal  triumph  informed  the  Vicar's  quiet  tones : 

"We  are  in  the  sunshine  again." 

A  rare  smile  flickered  about  his  austere  lips.  Perhaps 
at  that  moment  Tim  apprehended  something  heretofore  ig- 
nored, sounding  the  depths  of  another's  hopes  and  ambi- 
tions. He  had  supposed  that  the  Vicar's  work  engrossed 
and  satisfied  him.  Now,  he  had  an  illuminating  glimpse  of 
ambitions  focussed  upon  himself.  His  success  lay  in  the 
womb  of  another's  soul.  Travail  had  brought  it  forth. 

"Do  you  care  so  much  ?"  he  asked  wonderingly. 

The  Vicar  drew  a  deep  breath;  and,  as  he  answered,  he 
seemed  to  be  gazing  through  the  clay  at  Tim's  spirit.  Soul 
met  soul  upon  the  heights,  above  baffling  mists  and  dark 
clouds. 

"I  care,  I  have  always  cared  tremendously." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  The  feeling  in  the 
Vicar's  voice  made  Tim  tremble.  It  happened  to  be  9  re- 
62 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

markable  voice,  whose  beauty  imposed  itself  subtly  in  spite 
of,  perhaps  because  of,  certain  disabilities.  Not  a  mag- 
nificent organ  such  as  is  possessed  by  some  popular  preach- 
ers ;  hardly  musical  in  the  accepted  sense ;  certainly  lack- 
ing in  power  and  volume,  lacking,  too,  in  varied  inflection, 
not  a  voice  wherewith  to  inebriate  the  multitude,  rather  the 
still  small  voice  of  a  pure  conscience  seeking  patiently  to 
make  itself  heard  by  reason  of  its  quality,  invariably  low 
and  sweet  and  penetrating.  In  the  pulpit  and  at  the  lectern, 
the  Vicar  stood  before  his  congregation  an  arresting  figure, 
because  it  seemed  to  be  his  deliberate  aim  to  suppress  him- 
self. He  scrupulously  avoided  the  adventitious  tricks  of 
gesture  and  speech  so  common  to  many  preachers.  He  never 
presented  his  thoughts  to  his  dear  friends  ;  he  was  never  col- 
loquial or  familiar  in  the  House  of  God,  except,  possibly, 
when  he  was  catechising  the  children  in  the  nave.  But  his 
greatest  attribute  as  an  expounder  of  dogma  or  doctrine, 
the  attribute  which  might  have  secured  for  him  high  prefer- 
ment, was  the  measured  conviction  with  which  he  spoke 
from  the  chancel,  the  burning  faith  in  God's  message,  the 
absence  of  doubt  in  that  message.  His  curate  afforded 
a  humorous  contrast.  That  worthy  and  zealous  young 
man  never  missed  a  suitable  opportunity  of  presenting  his 
doubts  to  the  villagers  and  endeavouring  to  rout  them, 
often  with  humiliating  ill-success.  He  dug  deep  pits  into 
which  he  floundered,  emerging  hot  and  breathless,  with, 
perhaps,  the  disarming  question  upon  his  lips :  "Have  I 
made  my  meaning  clear  to  you,  my  dear  brethren?"  Tim, 
then,  was  hardly  able  to  restrain  the  impulse  to  leap  to  his 
feet,  and  shout  out:  "No,  sir,  you  have  not." 

The  Vicar  continued : 

"There  are  reasons  into  which  I  cannot  go  now,  which 
explain  why  I  have  cared  so  much,  why,  in  a  sense  that  you 
are  not  yet  old  enough  to  understand,  I  have  made  your 
training  a  matter  of  supreme  importance  to  myself,  a  mat- 
ter almost  of  faith  in  what  I  hold  to  be  true  and  ever- 
lasting." 

63 


Timothy 

His  voice  died  away.  Tim  knew  that  he  would  say  no 
more,  that  any  questions  would  be  kindly  but  inexorably 
vetoed.  Curiosity  consumed  him.  He  divined  vaguely  that 
a  mystery  lay  between  himself  and  the  Vicar,  a  mystery 
which  included  his  mother.  Of  that  mother  and  her  family 
he  knew  just  enough  to  be  inordinately  greedy  for  more. 
His  maternal  grandfather  was  dead ;  the  title  and  what  was 
left  of  a  crippled  estate  had  passed  to  a  distant  kinsman. 
The  Vicar,  reading  the  boy's  thoughts,  added  a  few  words : 

"Some  day,  Tim,  there  may  be  full  confidence  between 
us.  I  pray  that  such  a  day  may  come,  or  rather  that  you 
may  advance  to  it,  because  such  confidence  on  my  part 
must  be  earned  by  you.  When  that  day  does  dawn  you 
will  understand  me — and  yourself." 


ii 

Meanwhile,  Ivy  Jellicoe  smiled  whenever  she  met  Tim. 
Her  voice  was  soft  and  beguiling  when  speaking  to  su- 
periors ;  in  the  kitchen  and  pantry  it  shrilled,  and  the  Hamp- 
shire accent  became  noticeable. 

Tim  talked  to  her  as  he  talked  to  everybody.  And  Ivy 
prattled  back  to  him.  Her  father  was  still  in  gaol;  other- 
wise his  daughter  would  have  remained  at  home.  She 
spoke  of  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  respectable  place,  and 
of  the  kindness  of  the  Vicar  when  this  fact  came  to  his  no- 
tice. Tim  took  her  measure  with  all  the  cocksureness  of 
eighteen.  She  was  a  dear  little  thing,  hardly  treated  be- 
cause her  sire  was  a  poacher.  She  continued  to  smile  at 
Tim. 

Let  us  say  frankly,  and  have  done  with  it,  that  Ivy  was 
a  healthy,  handsome  little  animal,  with  inherited  animal  pro- 
pensities, and  much  less  intelligent  than  she  appeared.  Had 
the  Vicar  been  quite  other  than  what  he  was  he  would 
never  have  taken  the  baggage  into  his  house.  The  wife 
of  the  rector  of  Lanterton  sniffed  when  she  learned  that 
64 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

he  had  done  so.  It  is  certain,  also,  that  Tim  was  incapable 
of  beginning  an  intrigue  with  a  maid  in  his  father's  serv- 
ice. He  was  working  hard,  and  overworking,  which  may 
account  partly  for  what  followed.  If  love  be  a  disease,  then 
its  more  potent  ravages  are  likely  to  affect  disastrously 
those  who  have  strayed  from  the  normal. 

It  was  unfortunate,  also,  that  during  this  hot  summer 
Tim  was  cut  off  from  cricket  or  any  other  fonn  of  healthy 
exercise.  Riding  his  bicycle  along  dusty  roads  was  not  suf- 
ficiently alluring,  and  playing  tennis  with  young  ladies  was 
almost  as  boring.  Golf — had  it  been  possible  in  those  days 
— would  have  adjusted  the  boy's  equilibrium. 

One  morning  Tim  touched  Ivy's  soft  cheek.  He  did  not 
plan  this  move.  A  tear  upon  the  damask  challenged  sym- 
pathy and  pity. 

"Anything  wrong?" 

"They  do  throw  it  up  to  me  that  father's  in  gaol." 

"What  a  beastly  shame!  Never  mind,  Ivy!  Cheer  up! 
You're  a  dear  little  thing." 

And  then  he  had  touched  her  cheek  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  smiling  pleasantly.  Ivy  expressed  no  surprise  and 
no  bashfulness.  But  her  uplifted  eyes  held  a  note  of  inter- 
rogation. She  said  demurely : 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir." 

She  waited  an  instant;  and  then  flitted  away,  looking 
back  smiling. 

This  na'ive  smile  began  to  interfere  with  Tim's  work. 
Why  did  this  simple,  artless  creature  smile  upon  him  so 
persistently?  Why  did  her  eyes  follow  him? 

About  a  week  later,  he  was  alone  in  the  dining-room,  late 
at  night,  trying  to  focus  a  jaded  brain  upon  the  helicoidal 
parabola,  when  Ivy  tapped  at  the  door  and  came  in. 

"Shall  I  put  out  the  lights,  sir?  The  Vicar  has  gone  to 
bed." 

Tim  looked  up  from  his  confused  figures  and  diagrams 
to  behold  a  face  not  very  unlike  the  Nina  of  Greuze.  For 
a  moment  he  stared  at  her,  hearing  her  question  and  hav- 

65 


Timothy 

ing  a  curt  "Yes"  upon  his  lips,  but  saying  nothing,  because 
her  expression,  half  beguiling,  half  derisive,  confounded 
him. 

"Come  here!" 

She  drifted  towards  him,  holding  herself  very  upright, 
smilingly  self-possessed. 

"Why  do  you  always  smile  at  me?" 

She  answered  calmly : 

"I  suppose,  sir,  it's  because  I  like  you." 

"Why?" 

She  blushed  as  he  put  the  question. 

"You  are  such  a  dear,  and  so  handsome." 

Tim  got  up.  Ivy  looked  grave,  and  oddly  impassive. 
Tim  discovered  that  he  was  trembling,  with  a  choking  sen- 
sation in  his  throat. 

"Good-night,"  he  said  hoarsely.     "Put  out  the  lights." 

"Yes,  sir." 

She  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  turning  on  the  threshold. 
Her  face  had  become  piteous. 

"Are  you  angry,  sir?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!    There!    Hook  it!" 

Ivy  vanished.  Tim  turned  to  his  diagrams  which  spun 
round  before  his  eyes.  Query.  How  do  you  compare  arcs 
of  the  same  curve  which  cannot  be  superposed?  Query. 
Did  Ivy  think  him  a  fool? 

He  tackled  the  second  query  first.  Yes ;  in  these  affairs 
the  male  is  placed  in  an  abominably  false  position,  although 
the  shrieking  sisterhood  deny  it.  The  maid  who  resists 
importunity  is  exalted,  even  by  the  man  whom  she  vir- 
tuously repulses.  But  the  youth  who  turns  from  ripe  lips 
is  not  exalted.  Joseph  flying  from  temptation  excites  ridi- 
cule. Undoubtedly,  Ivy  thought  him  a  fool. 

He  tried  to  analyse  his  emotions.     He  wanted  to  kiss 

Ivy.     With   the  greatest  effort  he  had  refrained.     Well, 

ought  he  not  to  feel  uplifted?    But  he  didn't.     He  felt  a 

fool.     He  shut  up  his  books  and  went  to  bed  thoroughly 

66 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

disgusted  with  himself.     In  the  morning,  however,  he  was 
bursting  with  excellent  resolutions. 

"I'll  take  jolly  good  care  there's  no  more  of  that." 


in 

About  a  week  later  he  dined  at  Pennington  House.  Sir 
Gilbert  was  entertaining  a  distinguished  visitor,  an  ex- Vice- 
roy of  India.  Tim  felt  immensely  honoured  at  being  in- 
vited to  meet  the  great  man.  County  magnates  were  pres- 
ent, and  their  wives.  Tim,  as  the  least  important  male,  found 
himself  between  Lady  Pennington  and  a  sharp-nosed  spin- 
ster who  wrote  novels.  Lady  Pennington  was  listening 
attentively  to  the  ex-viceroy ;  and  the  lady  novelist  gave 
undivided  attention  to  her  dinner.  He  stared  affectionately 
at  the  family  portraits.  There  was  one  of  Sir  Gilbert 
painted  as  a  young  man.  But  Tim  could  never  behold  the 
Squire  as  other  than  what  he  was,  a  still  vigorous  octo- 
genarian, blending  consummately  the  most  dignified  self- 
respect  with  unfailing  courtesy  and  suavity.  As  a  young 
man  he  had  been  painted  in  the  high  stiff  black  satin  stock 
of  the  period.  His  coat  seemed  to  be  cruelly  tight  about 
the  waist.  "He  never  got  away  from  that  stock,"  thought 
Tim.  He  glanced  at  other  members  of  the  Pennington 
family.  Two  sons  and  two  daughters  were  present.  They, 
also,  exhibited  the  Pennington  traits  and  distinctions,  an 
easy  air  of  good-breeding,  a  placid  confidence  in  them- 
selves, their  position,  and  family.  They  had  nothing  in 
common  with  what  is  known  to-day  as  smart  society.  Fash- 
ion was  too  ephemeral  for  a  family  so  long  rooted  in  the 
soil.  The  ladies  wore  simple  gowns  and  little  jewellery. 
Their  voices  were  clear  but  low. 

Tim  sipped  his  champagne  and  enjoyed  it.  His  sharp 
young  ears  caught  every  word  that  dropped  from  viceregal 
lips.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  was  included  in  that  august 
conversation,  Lady  Pennington  said  in  her  incisive  way; 


Timothy 


"This  is  Tim  White,  our  Vicar's  son.  India  is  marking 
him  for  her  own." 

"We  must  have  a  word  or  two  together  later,"  said  the 
great  man,  leaning  forward,  and  looking  hard  at  Tim. 

"Tim  can  tell  you  what  fritillaries  are  found  in  our 
woods." 

Tim  could  and  did.  It  appeared  that  the  great  man  was 
an  entomologist,  but  he  had  never  captured  a  Purple  Em- 
peror. Tim  could  boast  a  happier  fortune.  His  eyes 
sparkled  as  he  described  the  luring  of  the  monarch  from 
the  oak-tops,  the  imperial  weakness  for  raw  steak,  and  the 
final  swoop  of  the  net.  The  lady-novelist  eyed  him  with 
kindlier  interest,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  read  her  latest 
novel.  Tim,  replying  in  the  negative,  added  hastily: 

"I  suppose  I'm  the  only  person  in  this  room  who  hasn't." 

Then  he  heard  the  great  man's  too  loud  whisper  to  his 
hostess : 

"What  a  handsome  boy!  Mercury  poised  for  his  first 
flight!" 

Tim  blushed  with  pleasure. 

After  dinner,  he  remained  of  course  with  the  men,  and 
was  made  to  feel  by  his  kind  host  that  he  was  at  last  one 
of  them.  When  the  decanters  were  circling,  Sir  Gilbert 
said  genially : 

"Tim,  my  boy,  take  a  glass  of  '47  Port.  There's  not  too 
much  of  it  left." 

Tim  obeyed,  and  was  further  enjoined  to  sip  the  noble 
wine — which  he  did. 

Dinner  parties  began  and  ended  much  earlier  in  those 
days,  and  the  Vicar  told  Tim  to  slip  back  to  the  Vicarage 
and  go  to  bed.  Possibly,  he  may  have  remarked  the  spar- 
kling eyes  and  too  flushed  cheeks.  Tim  was  not  accustomed 
to  mix  champagne  and  port. 

Alone  in  the  fresh  night  air,  walking  back  to  the  Vicarage, 
he  felt  delightfully  exhilarated,  tempted  to  burst  into  song, 
paeans  of  thanksgiving,  because  everybody  had  behaved  so 
68 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

decently.  His  offence  had  been  shelved  if  not  forgotten — 
pushed  out  of  sight  and  smell.  Yes — he  was  reinstated. 

In  this  buoyant  mood,  he  returned  home  to  find  Ivy 
sitting  up  to  open  the  front  door,  for  the  Vicar  carried  the 
only  latch-key.  Tim  said  boisterously : 

"Oh,  Ivy,  I've  had  such  a  splendiferous  time." 

"You  look  like  it,  sir." 

"And  I  feel — I  feel "    He  burst  out  laughing. 

Ivy  joined  in  that  infectious  laugh. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Mr.  Tim?" 

She  pronounced  his  name  softly,  but  he  was  too  excited 
to  notice  that. 

"I'll  tell  you.  I'll  confide  in  you.  I  feel  rather  as  I  did 
the  night  I  was  caught  out  of  College.  I  feel  that  I  hate 
to  go  to  bed.  I'd  like  to  gallop  over  the  downs  to  Win- 
chester, or  swim  far  out  to  sea.  I  shouldn't  mind  a  good 
fight  with  the  gloves,  or  without  'em,  by  Jove !" 

"You  are — excited,  sir." 

"Yes;  I  am." 

She  smiled  at  him,  letting  her  lashes  fall,  a  trick  often 
practised  before  the  glass.  Then  she  said  softly : 

"Shut  your  eyes,  Mr.  Tim." 

"Why?" 

"Shut  them,  and  see." 

He  shut  both  eyes.  Instantly  he  felt  her  soft  mouth 
barely  brushing  his  and  then  a  low  ripple  of  laughter.  He 
seized  her  and  kissed  her  lips,  feeling  them  quiver  beneath 
his  own.  He  heard  her  murmur : 

"Oh,  I  do  like  you,  Mr.  Tim." 

He  said  hastily : 

"I  say,  where's  cook?" 

"Fast  asleep  and  snoring." 

"I  wanted  excitement,  and  now  I've  got  it." 

"So  have  I.    It's  just  too  heavenly." 

He  went  quietly  into  the  dining-room.  Ivy  followed  on 
tip-toe.  The  curtains  were  drawn  and  a  lamp  was  burning. 
Tim  sat  down;  Ivy  slipped  on  to  his  knees,  encircled  his 

69 


Timothy 

neck  with  her  arms,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his.  He 
pressed  her  to  him,  as  she  whispered: 

"There's  no  harm  in  a  little  kissing,  is  there?" 

Considering  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  that  moment,  it 
is  to  his  credit  that  he  replied : 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that." 

"Haven't  you  ever  kissed  a  girl  before?" 

"Ye-es." 

"Then  why  shouldn't  you  kiss  me?" 

"Ivy,  have  you  kissed  other  men?" 

"One  or  two,"  she  answered  carelessly.  "They  expect  it, 
the  gert  sillies,  when  you  walks  out  with  'em.  I  never  kissed 
a  man  unless  he  asked  me." 

"You  wanted  me  to  kiss  you  the  other  night,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  never  liked  any  boy  as  I  like  you.  You're 
handsomer  and  nicer  than  anybody  else.  And  I  haven't 
walked  out  with  a  young  man  since  I  came  here." 

From  her  tone  Tim  guessed  that  he  was  the  cause  of  this 
remarkable  abstention.  He  said  shyly : 

"Why  not,  dear?" 

"Because  I  liked1  you.  There!  What's  the  use  of  pre- 
tending? I  liked  you  from  the  first.  When  you  took  my 
hand  in  the  kitchen,  I  could  have  kissed  you  there  and  then. 
Don't  you  want  to  go  on  kissing  me?" 

Tim  hesitated  and  plunged. 

"Yes,  I  do." 

IV 

The  affair  might  have  gone  no  further,  had  it  rested 
with  Tim.  Not  long  ago,  at  a  notable  Church  Congress,  a 
lady  declared  with  apparent  conviction  that  poor  girls  were 
at  the  mercy  of  any  man.  It  is  an  amazing  fact  that  nobody 
present  protested  against  this  wholesale  indictment  of  im- 
pecunious virtue;  and  no  mother  or  father  made  mention 
of  the  innumerable  boys  at  the  mercy  of  women  who  delib- 
erately ruin  them  body  and  soul.  Those  who  have  this  mat- 
70 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

ter  most  keenly  at  heart  will  advance  their  own  cause  very 
measurably  when  they  face  both  sides  of  the  Social  Evil. 

Tim  felt  uncommonly  cheap  the  next  morning,  and  he 
seized  an  early  opportunity  of  coming  to  what  he  deemed 
to  be  a  right  understanding  with  Ivy  Jellicoe. 

"We  let  ourselves  go  a  bit  last  night,  Ivy." 

"It  was  rare  fun,  Mr.  Tim." 

Tim,  crimson  with  nervousness,  went  on  hurriedly : 

"You  know,  dear,  I  couldn't  marry  you." 

"Why,  Mr.  Tim,  I  know  that.  Whatever  put  such  an 
idea  into  your  head.  Marry  the  likes  of  me?  Well,  I 
declare !" 

She  laughed  artlessly,  with  an  air  of  such  innocence  that 
a  wiser  than  Tim  might  have  been  pardoned  for  believing 
her  to  be  guileless.  He  experienced  a  lively  relief,  as  he 
went  on,  not  so  nervously : 

"It's  all  right,  if  we  both  agree  that  it  is  just  fun,  and 
nothing  more.  Your  kisses  are  sweet,  Ivy,  but " 

"What?" 

"There  mustn't  be  too  many  of  them." 
»   She  glanced  at  him  roguishly,  displaying  a  brace  of  dim- 
ples. 

"You  can  help  yourself,  Mr.  Tim,  when  you  feel  like  it." 

"I  am  afraid  of  getting  too  fond  of  you,  dear." 

She  laughed. 

"I'll  risk  that.    Any  girl  would." 

Tim  went  back  to  his  Sanskrit  and  Calculus  feeling 
chastened  and  at  the  same  time  triumphant.  At  all  costs  to 
his  emotions  he  must  protect  this  pretty,  naive  creature 
against  herself.  She  thought  nothing  of  kissing!  Why 
should  he?  Girls  in  her  class  were  accustomed  to  it.  And 
she  had  kept  her  lips  for  him.  That  thrilled. 

In  a  sense,  too,  he  realised  that  he  could  now  attack  his 
work  with  renewed  absorption.  Kissing  Ivy  had  cleared  his 
brain  of  certain  clogging  and  insistent  fancies  winged  and 
barbed  by  Eros. 

71 


Timothy 


But  he  had  no  doubt  as  to  what  the  Vicar  would  say 
about  it,  if  he  knew. 

The  dear  saint  must  never  know. 


One  shrinks  from  setting  down  what  followed,  but  the 
facts  must  be  told  in  justice  to  Tim.  He  succumbed,  like 
many  a  gallant  youth,  to  overwhelming  temptation.  Occa- 
sionally, the  Vicar  passed  a  night  or  two  away  from  home, 
attending  some  Diocesan  Conference,  or  preaching  to  neigh- 
bouring congregations.  No  man  was  more  ready  to  relieve 
a  fellow-priest  in  distress. 

He  was  away  from  home,  when  Tim,  long  after  midnight, 
heard  a  soft  tap  at  his  bedroom  door.  He  opened  it  to  find 
Ivy,  shaking  with  fear.  Whether  or  not  that  fear  was  as- 
sumed may  be  left  to  those  with  a  full  understanding  of  the 
female  heart.  Let  us  charitably  assume  that  it  was  genuine. 

"What's  up?"  asked  Tim. 

"There's  a  burglar  getting  into  the  house." 

"What  rot !    We've  nothing  to  burgle." 

"I  heard  him,  Mr.  Tim.  I  didn't  wake  Cook  because  she'd 
scream  the  roof  in,  but  I  had  to  come  to  you." 

"Right,"  said  Tim.  "By  Jove,  I  rather  hope  the  beggar 
is  there.  What  a  lark  it  would  be  to  nail  him !" 

"You  won't  run  no  risks  ?" 

"I'll  stalk  him.    Go  back  to  your  room." 

"Oh !    I  couldn't.    I'll  wait  and  see  what  happens." 

Tim  grasped  the  poker,  and  crept  along  the  passage,  and 
downstairs,  excitement  gripping  at  his  vitals.  After  an 
exhaustive  examination  of  the  premises  he  came  back  to 
find  Ivy  sitting  upon  his  bed,  dangling  a  pair  of  bare  feet. 
A  dark  coat  covered  her  nightgown. 

"Nothing  doing,"  growled  Tim.  "You  pop  back  into 
bed !" 

"Mayn't  I  stay  one  minute?    I'm  ever  so  frightened." 
72 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

Tim  saw  that  she  was  trembling,  and  put  his  arms  round 
her  to  kiss  away  her  fears.  She  clung  to  him  with  an  aban- 
don which  swept  him  off  his  feet,  caressing  his  hair  with 
her  right  hand,  murmuring  again  and  again  her  favourite 
sentence : 

"Oh,  I  do  like  you.    It  is  heavenly  to  be  with  you." 

Tim's  virtue  oozed  from  every  pore  in  his  skin.  He 
swore  beneath  his  breath;  he  tried  to  push  her  from  him, 
but  she  clung  to  him  desperately. 

"Let  me  go,"  he  said  fiercely. 

"Why  should  I  ?    You  love  me,  and  I  love  you." 

"Let  me  go,  I  say.    I  want  to  lock  the  door." 

She  let  him  go,  laughing  softly. 

Next  morning  he  was  the  unhappiest  youth  in  Hampshire. 
Some  six  months  before  he  had  witnessed  a  performance 
of  Faust  in  the  company  of  a  retired  colonel,  who  had 
taken  one  of  Sir  Gilbert's  houses.  The  house  stood  upon  a 
hill;  and  Tim  often  thought  that  although  of  the  village 
it  was  in  a  sense  out  of  it,  being  less  permeated  with  Pen- 
nington  traditions.  The  Colonel  gave  Tim  some  rough 
shooting ;  and  the  Colonel's  wife,  who  belonged  to  a  Sketch- 
ing Club,  taught  him  to  draw  in  water-colour  and  to  play 
chess.  Tim  loved  them  both  because  they  were  so  kind  to 
him,  and  because  he  could  chatter  more  freely  to  them 
than  to  other  Olympians.  He  regarded  the  Colonel  as  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  not  without  reason. 

After  the  play,  sitting  at  supper  with  his  host,  Tim  crit- 
icised drastically  the  protagonists  because  there  had  been 
no  struggle.  He  demanded  evidence  of  a  dramatic  fight 
between  good  and  evil.  Marguerite,  he  contended,  had 
yielded  too  easily.  Whereupon  the  Colonel  said  tentatively : 

"Well,  Tim,  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  There  is  a  deal 
of  cant,  my  boy,  about  what  is  called  seduction.  I  feel  sure 
that  the  Vicar  has  never  discussed  such  a  subject  with  you." 

"Never!"  said  Tim. 

"But  you  are  old  enough  not  to  misunderstand  what  I'm 
about  to  say."  He  paused,  glancing  at  Tim's  handsome 

73 


Timothy 

face;  then  he  continued  slowly:  "I  do  not  believe  that 
virtue  is  easily  seduced.  I  do  not  believe  that  there  are 
many  men  going  about  deliberately  trying  to  ruin  girls." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Tim. 

"It  is  my  experience  that  these  unhappy  affairs  come 
about  without  design,  and,  as  a  rule,  swiftly  and  unexpect- 
edly. Nine  times  out  of  ten  the  maid  meets  the  man  half 
way.  Each  is  carried  away  by  irresistible  emotion.  Mar- 
guerite, in  my  opinion,  fell  a  victim  to  herself.  Had  she 
been  really  virtuous,  had  she  been  capable  of  a  tremendous 
struggle,  she  would  have  resisted  Faust.  The  cynical  smile 
with  which  Mephistopheles  looks  on  indicates  that.  The 
poor  girl  was  ripe  for  the  plucking.  Virtuous  maids,  Tim, 
have  not  much  difficulty  in  resisting  men,  and  men,  with 
rare  exceptions,  respect  their  virtue.  Remember  this,  my 
boy,  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when  fierce  temptation 
attacks  you.  It  is  almost  certain  that  the  temptation  will  be 
nearly  as  overmastering  to  the  woman,  and  then  you  must  be 
doubly  strong  for  her  and  yourself." 

"Thanks,"  said  Tim  soberly,  much  impressed  by  the 
Colonel's  manner. 

"You  have  a  lot  to  learn  about  women,  Tim,  and  from 
women." 

Now,  Tim  asked  himself  miserably  whether  his  education 
was  beginning  or  ending.  Ivy's  attitude,  when  he  first  met 
her  alone,  astounded  and  confounded  him.  He  expected 
tears  and  reproaches.  He  found  smiles.  He  gasped  out : 

"Aren't  you  furious  with  me?" 

"Mercy !    Why  should  I  be  ?" 

"Heavens!    I  feel  an  unutterable  beast!" 

"Do  you  think  me  a  bad  girl?" 

"No,  no.  We  have  been  whirled  into  this,  dear.  I  ought 
to  have  mastered  myself.  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  a 
thousand  things." 

"What  things?" 

He  stared  at  her  blankly.  Had  she  not  considered  conse- 
quences? Was  she  incredibly  innocent,  or  immeasurably 
74 


Ivy  Jellicoe 


stupid?  He  told  himself  that  she  was  neither  one  nor  the 
other.  Yet  he  must  make  her  see  what  he  saw. 

"Ivy,  my  poor  little  girl,  don't  you  know  that  we  are 
standing  upon  the  edge  of  a  volcano?  Aren't  you  fright- 
ened?" 

She  laughed,  not  brazenly,  but  with  genuine  mirth.  He 
repeated  his  question.  She  answered  it  simply: 

"I  was  never  so  happy  in  my  life." 

"And  I  was  never  so  miserable." 

Between  them  yawned  the  ocean  of  differences  which 
separated  Little  Pennington  from  Lanterton,  or,  let  us  say, 
the  Vicar  from  Jack  Jellicoe. 

"Kiss  me,  and  don't  look  cross,"  said  Ivy. 

During  unhappy  days  that  followed,  Tim  tried  again 
and  again  to  peer  into  the  girl's  mind.  She  had  given  her- 
self so  gladly,  so  joyously,  that  he  realised  with  poignant 
remorse  how  wholly  she  was  his ;  and  yet  her  mind  remained 
a  blank.  To  some  questions  she  presented  an  impenetrable 
mask  of  silence.  He  decided  that  she  must  lack  imagina- 
tion, and  was  constrained  to  enjoy  the  present,  being  unable 
to  visualise  the  future. 

"If  there  should  be  trouble,  I  could  never  forgive  my- 
self." 

She  replied  confidently : 

"Of  course  I  know  that  I'm  safe  with  you,  because  you're 
a  gentleman." 

He  answered  grimly : 

"I  don't  feel  like  one." 

This  ingenuous  confidence  appealed  tremendously.  Tim 
began  to  plan  for  her  happiness.  He  bought  her  a  trinket 
or  two  which  she  accepted  with  childlike  delight.  Again 
and  again  she  whispered  to  him: 

"This  is  the  time  of  my  life." 

He  met  her  on  Sunday  afternoons  in  the  deep  woods ;  he 
tried  to  correct  her  grammar ;  he  controlled  a  too  exuberant 
taste  in  hats;  he  wondered  whether  it  would  be  possible  to 
marry  her.  It  happened  that  a  notorious  lawsuit,  in  which 

75 


Timothy 

a  pretty  actress  had  been  awarded  immense  damages  after 
a  breach  of  promise  suit,  was  reported  in  the  daily  papers. 
The  defendant,  a  young  nobleman,  had  refused  to  marry 
the  girl  because,  so  he  affirmed,  the  great  ladies  of  his 
family  would  be  "nasty"  to  a  daughter  of  the  people.  Critics 
had  raised  scornful  voices,  accusing  the  noble  earl  of  snob- 
bishness, and  throwing  mud  at  the  great  ladies.  Tim  dis- 
cussed the  affair  with  the  Vicar.  Of  late  their  talks  had 
become  of  a  more  intimate  character.  The  Vicar  rather 
invited  a  free  discussion  of  themes  of  social  interest.  In 
his  impersonal  way,  he  presented  fairly  enough  the  view- 
point of  the  great  ladies. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  "should  they  be  expected  to  welcome 
a  girl  between  whom  and  them  bristles  what  Stevenson 
calls  'the  barrier  of  associations  that  cannot  be  imparted'? 
I  should  be  nasty,  I  fear,  to  any  village  girl  who  aspired  to 
marry  you,  Tim." 

This  was  said  half- jestingly ;  and  Tim  salted  the  state- 
ment, knowing  that  it  was  almost  impossible  for  the  Vicar 
to  be  "nasty"  to  any  human  being.  Nevertheless,  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  this  quiet,  refined  scholar  would  never 
love  or  cherish  Ivy  Jellicoe,  although  he  might  receive  her. 
And  such  a  marriage  meant  the  end  of  a  promising  career. 

If  the  Vicar  should  find  out ? 

The  thought  drove  sleep  from  his  pillow.  With  some 
relief  he  perceived  that  Ivy  was  cautious  as  he  in  keeping 
discovery  at  bay.  The  intrigue  made  him  miserable;  it 
acted  like  champagne  on  her.  She  declared  that  she  adored 
the  romance  of  it,  the  secret  meetings  in  the  woods,  the 
mask  worn  in  public,  the  stolen  kisses. 

Tim  began  to  realise  that  he  was  desperately  attached  to 
her;  and  he  knew  also — what  he  hid  from  Ivy — that  his 
work  was  being  undermined. 


76 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

VI 

He  went  up  to  London  for  the  Eton  and  Harrow  match. 
When  he  returned  home  after  a  three  days'  absence  a 
strange  maid  opened  the  front  door.  Tim  stammered  out : 

"Hullo !    Where's  Ivy  Jellicoe  ?" 

The  new  maid  answered  primly:  "Her  pore  mother's 
dyin'.  They  sent  for  Ivy  yesterday." 

The  Vicar  came  out  of  the  study,  and  greeted  Tim  affec- 
tionately. Tim  controlled  himself,  whilst  he  answered  the 
Vicar's  questions.  He  was  impatient  to  go  to  his  room,  for 
surely  Ivy  had  left  a  note  behind  her.  Presently,  he 
searched  diligently,  finding  nothing.  He  learned  afterwards 
that  Ivy  had  departed  in  hot  haste. 

At  dinner  the  new  maid  waited  indifferently.    Tim  said : 

"I  hope  Ivy  is  coming  back." 

"It  is  not  very  probable,"  replied  the  Vicar. 

Next  day,  Tim  wrote  a  letter  which  anybody  might  have 
read.  He  enclosed  a  stamped  and  addressed  envelope,  ask- 
ing Ivy  to  let  him  hear  from  her  by  return  of  post,  but  she 
did  not  do  so,  which  hurt  and  perplexed  him.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  failed  to  realise  his  cruel  anxiety? 

Her  letter,  when  it  did  arrive  three  days  afterwards, 
corroborated  what  the  Vicar  had  said.  Ivy  was  likely  to 
remain  at  home  indefinitely.  The  letter,  nicely  written, 
simply  worded,  but  ill  spelt,  was  full  of  love.  At  the  end 
was  an  artless  postscript :  "I  send  you  all  myself." 

By  this  time  Tim  was  aware  that  he  loved  her  to  distrac- 
tion. He  hardly  dared  to  admit  another  truth  as  naked 
to  his  perception.  He  was  angry,  because  her  woman's 
wit  could  devise  no  plan  for  a  meeting,  no  hint  of  future 
correspondence. 

After  a  sleepless  night,  he  determined  to  be  bold,  re- 
joicing at  the  necessity  for  action.  He  cycled  to  Lanterton, 
arriving  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  children  were 
at  school.  Ivy  opened  the  cottage  door,  giving  a  gasp  of 
distress  when  her  brown  eyes  identified  the  visitor. 

77 


Timothy 

"How  is  your  mother?"  asked  Tim.  "May  I  come  in 
for  a  minute?" 

He  spoke  clearly,  for  a  neighbour  was  listening. 

"Mother's  bad,"  said  Ivy.    "Please  come  in,  sir." 

Tim  was  ushered  into  the  tiny  parlour.  He  noticed  with 
satisfaction  that  Ivy  was  wearing  a  clean  print  gown  which 
suited  her  admirably.  As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  she  flew 
into  his  arms,  exclaiming: 

"You  are  a  darling  to  come.  I've  been  pining  for  you. 
I've  cried  myself  to  sleep  every  night." 

"I've  not  slept  at  all,"  said  Tim.  "Now,  Ivy,  is  it  safe  to 
write  to  you?" 

Ivy  nodded. 

"I  take  the  letters  from  the  postman." 

"Good!  Here  are  some  more  stamped  and  addressed 
envelopes.  Can  you  meet  me?" 

"I'll  try." 

"Good  again.  I  have  thought  of  a  safe  place,  a  snug 
little  nook." 

"Aren't  you  clever?" 

"Haven't  you  thought  of  our  meeting?" 

"I've  thought  of  nothing,  except  our  parting." 

He  described  the  trysting-place,  adding : 

"We  must  talk  over  the  future." 

"Oh !    I  can't  abear  the  thought  of  losing  you." 

"You  are  not  going  to  lose  me." 

Just  then  the  querulous  voice  of  the  mother  was  heard, 
calling  for  her  daughter. 

"Coming,"  cried  Ivy.  She  clung  to  Tim,  choking  down 
her  tears,  murmuring  inarticulate  phrases.  She  concluded : 

"All  the  happiness  I've  ever  had  I  owe  to  you." 

The  mother  called  again,  her  weak  voice  rising  in  a  pitiful 
crescendo  of  petulance  and  distress.  Tim  said  hoarsely : 

"Tell  your  mother  that  I  called  to  enquire.  Arrange  a, 
meeting  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Indeed,  I  will,"  she  replied, 

7* 


Ivy  Jellicoc 


VII 

A  demoralising  fortnight  followed.  Twice,  during  that 
time,  Ivy  made  appointments  which  she  failed  to  keep.  Tim 
waited  for  her  in  a  copse  near  Lanterton,  tormented  by 
suspense,  straining  eyes  and  ears  to  catch  the  first  glimpse 
of  her,  to  Jiear  the  crackling  of  dry  twigs  beneath  her  feet, 
telling  himself  that  true  love  surmounted  all  obstacles,  know- 
ing that  he  would  have  gone  to  her  through  fire  and  water. 
After  waiting  three  hours  he  rushed  back  to  the  Vicarage 
in  a  fever  of  rage  and  unhappiness.  Explanations  reached 
him,  but  not — as  he  felt  he  had  a  right  to  expect — by  the 
following  post.  The  explanations  revealed  illuminatingly 
Ivy's  lack  of  resource  and  imagination,  her  incapacity  to  deal 
with  infinitesimal  difficulties.  Upon  the  first  occasion,  so 
she  wrote,  she  had  actually  left  the  cottage,  but  was  joined 
by  a  young  man,  who  insisted  upon  keeping  her  company. 
She  had  not  been  equal  to  the  task  of  "shaking"  him,  as  she 
put  it.  Tim  clenched  his  fists,  thinking  savagely  how  badly 
shaken  the  young  man  would  have  been  had  he  had  his  way 
with  him!  The  unexpected  arrival  of  an  aunt  burked  the 
second  meeting.  Ivy  wrote  piteously :  "I  told  Auntie  I 
wanted  to  meet  somebody,  but  she  laughed  at  me.  What 
could  I  say?" 

Tim  told  her,  at  some  length,  what  she  might  have  said. 

Finally,  at  the  third  attempt,  they  met,  passing  a  couple 
of  hours  in  a  sanctuary  of  wet  bracken.  It  drizzled  piti- 
lessly nearly  the  whole  time,  and  Ivy  was  more  concerned, 
so  it  seemed  to  Tim,  with  her  Sunday  gown  than  with  her 
heart's  feelings.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  talk  of  the  future, 
she  wriggled  uneasily,  assuming  an  expression  with  which 
he  was  already  too  familiar,  the  impassive  mask  of  the 
peasant,  which  conceals  successfully  so  much  and  often  so 
little. 

He  asked  her  passionately: 

"Ivy,  dear,  how  do  you  feel?" 

79 


Timothy 

She  answered  literally: 

"I  be  getting  dreadful  wet." 

"Heavens !    What  does  that  matter  ?" 

Fortunately,  he  had  brought  an  umbrella.  They  sat  under 
a  thick  holly  with  the  umbrella  above  them.  Lovemaking, 
under  such  conditions,  is  possible  but  inconvenient. 

"You  will  come  back  to  the  Vicarage,  Ivy?" 

"May  be." 

"Why  are  you  so  cold,  dear?" 

She  shivered  slightly : 

"I  be  cold.    Tis  the  wind  and  the  rain." 

Tim  waxed  desperate.  The  thought  gained  strength  that 
this  might  be  their  last  meeting ;  for  he  was  approaching  the 
conviction  that  separation  was  inevitable;  and  it  is  fair  to 
add  that  he  considered  her  welfare  rather  than  his  own. 
Obviously  she  was  too  yourlg  and  inexperienced  to  carry 
on  an  intrigue.  Discovery  would  destroy  her.  But  if  this 
were  destined  to  be  their  last  tryst,  let  it  be  an  imperishable 
memory  for  each.  He  would  remain  her  faithful  friend 
always.  He  spoke  miserably  of  his  approaching  exam  and 
India.  Ivy  pouted. 

"It's  so  silly  to  think  of  what's  ahead." 

"But,  hang  it  all !    We  must." 

"Not  now.    Have  you  brought  any  chocolates  ?" 

He  had.  She  munched  them  with  delight,  displaying  her 
dimples  and  smiles,  captivating  him  afresh  with  her  deter- 
mination to  enjoy  the  passing  minute,  rain  or  no  rain.  He 
tried  to  rise  or  sink  to  her  simple  philosophy.  Presently, 
she  said  softly : 

"We  can't  help  loving  each  other.    It's  Nature." 

"Ah !  But  we're  not  living  under  natural  conditions.  In 
the  South  Sea  Islands  this  would  be  marriage  a  la  mode." 

"Marriage?  You  ain't  bothering  your  curly  head  about 
that,  surely?" 

"I  can't  help  bothering  about  lots  of  things." 

"You  are  a  funny  dear !  But  I  just  love  every  word  you 
80 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

say ;  except  when  you  talk  of  the  silly  old  future.  We  may 
be  dead  and  buried  come  Michaelmas." 

Then  he  had  a  revealing  glimpse  of  the  rustic  mind. 
This,  then,  was  the  point  of  view  of  girls  in  Ivy's  station 
of  life.  He  grasped  the  elemental  fact  that  sorrow,  disease 
and  death  encompass  the  poor  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave ; 
and  just  because  sorrow  is  more  likely  to  be  their  portion 
than  joy,  so  therefore  do  they  acclaim  joy,  when  it  comes 
to  them,  as  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  They  know, 
alas!  that  sorrow  will  follow  anyway. 

Tim  registered  a  vow  that  he  would  give  an  artless  crea- 
ture what  she  wanted,  and  she  assured  him  that  this  was 
sufficient  unto  her. 

Next  day  he  received  a  letter  which  pleased  him  greatly. 
In  it  she  further  revealed  herself.  "I  shall  be  miserable 
till  we  meet  again." 

Surely  she  was  telling  the  truth.  Heretofore  he  had 
questioned  the  quality  of  her  love,  not  its  quantity.  In 
moments  of  depression,  waiting 'for  her  in  the  bracken,  he 
had  told  himself  that  Ivy  had  taken  this  love  affair  too 
lightly.  He  did  not  blame  her.  Perhaps  she  was  right, 
poor  little  dearl  to  dance  in  the  sunlight  regardless  of 
gathering  shadows.  She  had  known  from  the  first  that  the 
sun  would  soon  decline  below  her  horizon.  She  had  meas- 
ured the  distance  between  Lanterton  and  Little  Pennington. 
And  then,  shutting  both  eyes,  she  had  jumped. 

This  particular  letter  made  a  profound  impression.  Did 
he  dare  to  marry  her  secretly  ?  A  vision  of  Daffy  stood  by 
his  pillow,  Daffy,  the  pure  maiden,  once  the  wife  and  sweet- 
heart of  his  dreams.  But  he  turned  from  her  impatiently, 
because  she  had  failed  him  in  his  hour  of  bitter  need.  Ivy 
had  given  everything,  demanding  nothing — except  kisses 
and  laughter,  and  chocolates !  At  their  next  meeting  he 
decided  to  bare  his  soul,  to  leave  the  issues  in  her  keeping. 
She  wrote  soon  afterwards  to  name  another  day,  but  this 
billet  ended  in  a  minor  key: 

"I  simply  loathe  to  tell  you,"  she  wrote,  "that  I  was  out 

81 


Timothy 

last  Sunday  with  that  young  chap  who  prevented  our  first 
meeting.  He  hangs  about  and  pounces  on  me.  I  go  with 
him  because,  as  I  told  you,  I  can't  shake  him,  but  I  keep  him 
in  proper  order.  I  felt  I  had  to  tell  you.  Thank  Goodness ! 
he  don't  worry  me  on  weekdays." 

Tim  felt  horribly  sick.  A  revulsion  seized  him.  He 
wrote  furiously,  telling  her  that  she  must  choose  between 
this  "chap"  and  himself.  He  tore  up  the  letter  when  he 
reread  it.  Ivy  had  been  honest  with  him.  The  girl  must 
live  her  normal  life,  when  apart  from  him,  as  he  lived  his. 
Had  he  not  walked  with  a  pretty  girl  upon  that  very  Sunday, 
one  of  his  own  class?  And  she  had  shown  herself  slightly 
flirtatious.  But  he  had  not  responded.  Nor  had  Ivy. 

The  day  of  the  appointed  tryst  came,  a  cloudless,  sultry 
morning  heralding  a  broiling  afternoon.  Unhappily,  he  was 
forced  to  lie  to  the  Vicar  about  his  plans.  This  made  him 
very  dejected  and  unable  to  work.  He  cycled  to  the  tryst- 
ing-place,  and  waited  two  hours. 

Ivy  did  not  come. 

He  suffered  abominably,  racking  his  brain  to  determine 
what  could  have  prevented  her.  He  knew  the  hour  when 
she  had  to  return  home  to  prepare  the  evening  meal.  Upon 
the  off  chance  of  getting  a  glimpse  of  her,  he  rode  into 
Lanterton,  and  smoked  a  pipe  at  a  discreet  distance  from 
the  Jellicoe  cottage.  Presently  Ivy  appeared,  not  alone. 

Ernest  Judd  was  with  her.  Tim  remained  in  the  shade 
of  a  tree.  The  pair  parted  at  the  gate  of  the  cottage. 
Journey  sauntered  up  the  road,  whistling.  Upon  his  smug, 
pleasant  face  lay  the  expression  of  one  well  pleased  with 
himself.  Obviously,  he  had  passed  an  agreeable  afternoon. 
He  did  not  perceive  Tim. 

Tim  rode  home  as  swiftly  as  Jehu  drove  his  horses.  He 
told  himself  that  he  was  a  jealous  fool  and  a  madman; 
and  the  mere  repetition  of  the  words  seemed  to  make  him 
more  foolish  and  more  mad.  Thus  do  the  fetters  of  the 
flesh  eat  into  the  soul. 

During  the  reaction  that  followed,  he  became  hopeful 
82 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

again.  On  the  morrow  there  would  be  a  letter  from  Ivy, 
explaining  everything.  The  poor  child  had  been  pestered  by 
this  fellow,  and  was  too  inexperienced  to  deal  with  him. 
Yes,  yes;  it  was  insensate  folly  for  him  to  be  jealous  of 
Journey. 

That  evening  the  Vicar  commented  upon  his  worn  ap- 
pearance. Tim  had  to  admit  that  he  was  sleeping  wretch- 
edly. The  Vicar  said  in  his  kindest  tones : 

"Have  you  anything  on  your  mind,  my  dear  boy  ?  If  so, 
tell  me." 

"The  work  is  going  badly.    If  I  should  be  spun !" 

The  Vicar  laughed. 

"Tim,  you  foolish  boy,  I  applaud  your  modesty,  but  you 
exercise  it  at  the  expense  of  your  wits.  Seriously,  you  are 
not  only  certain  to  pass  your  exam,  but  to  pass  high  up  in 
the  list.  Come,  come,  put  such  idle  misgivings  from  you." 

Tim  nodded.  Impulse  urged  him  to  confess.  Never 
had  he  felt  so  near  and  dear  to  his  father.  He  trembled 
upon  the  very  brink  of  confession.  But  he  remained  silent. 

Next  morning  there  was  no  letter  from  Ivy. 

By  this  time  anger  and  jealousy  had  passed  away.  He 
wrote  a  tender  letter,  which  assuredly  the  Vicar,  saint  as 
he  was,  might  have  read  with  compassion  and  sympathy. 
He  beseeched  Ivy  to  trust  him,  to  open  her  mind  and  heart. 
He  suspected  that  her  courage  might  have  failed  her,  that 
she  dreaded  discovery  and  all  it  included.  He  ended  as  fol- 
lows :  "If  you  are  afraid,  darling  Ivy,  and  you  may  well 
be  so,  tell  me,  and  I  will  leave  you  alone." 

He  had  to  wait  thirty-six  hours  for  her  answer.  This  is 
what  she  wrote  in  reply : 

"DEAR  MR.  TIM, 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  right.  My  courage  has  failed  me. 
It  do  worry  me  so.  And  my  affections  is  turning  to 
somebody  else.  I  feel  as  how  you  will  soon  get  sick  of 
me.  I  don't  blame  you,  dear.  Our  hands  have  met,  but 

not  our  hearts.  l(^r  •        U1    ,-.., 

Your  miserable  little 

"IVY." 

83 


Timothy 

Then  Tim  saw  red.  He  replied  with  a  violence  which 
brought  relief  to  his  lacerated  tissues: 

"YOU  CRUEL,    HEARTLESS  DEVIL  : 

"I  could  almost  kill  you.  May  the  day  come  when  the 
real  love  you  never  felt  for  me,  but  which  you  may  live 
to  feel  for  another  man,  is  thrown  back  at  you.  Do  what 
you  like  with  this  letter.  Shew  it  to  Ernest  Judd,  nail 
it  to  the  Church  door,  so  that  all  the  world  may  see  you 
as  I  see  you — a  wanton !" 

She  made  no  reply.  Tim  attacked  his  work  with  fever- 
ish zeal,  but  an  evil  spirit  possessed  him,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  prayed  fervently  that  it  might  be  cast  out,  that  he  might 
become  clean.  For  a  few  hours  he  hugged  to  his  soul  the 
fond  belief  that  his  prayer  had  been  answered.  Then  the 
devil  within  tore  him  afresh. 

As  the  days  passed,  he  regretted  his  too  brutal  outburst. 
He  wrote  once  more  to  Ivy — 

"I  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I  wrote  to  you  harshly,  and 
perhaps  unjustly.  I  take  back  what  I  said.  I  am  man 
enough  to  hope  sincerely  that  the  heartlessness  with 
which  you  have  treated  me  may  not  recoil  upon  you." 

Ivy  answered  this  letter. 

"Of  course  I  forgive  you,  dear.  I  could  forgive  you 
anything,  but  the  worry  is  too  much.  I  am  still  your  own 
little  IVY." 

Tim  accepted  this  as  final.  Part  of  the  autumn  he  spent 
in  Scotland,  fishing  and  rock-climbing  with  Eustace  Pomf  ret. 
He  returned  sane  in  mind  and  body,  able  to  affirm  that  the 
unclean  spirit  had  left  him.  He  knew  that  it  was  well  for 
him  and  for  Ivy  that  the  affair  was  ended.  He  swore  that 
this  bitter  experience  should  colour  and  not  discolour  his 
future. 

84 


Ivy  Jellicoe 

In  this  chastened  mood,  he  attacked  freshly  his  work. 

Unhappily,  as  the  Vicar  had  said,  the  fateful  shadows 
which  dog  our  actions  do  not  vanish  because  we  fail  to 
see  them.  One  afternoon  Tim  entered  the  Vicarage,  to  find 
Nemesis  limping  sadly  towards  him. 

"Your  father  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  study,  Mr.  Tim." 

"Right,"  said  Tim. 

The  cook,  who  delivered  this  message,  said  nervously : 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Tim,  your  pore  father  is  ill." 

"What?" 

"I'm  sure  he  looks  like  death." 

"Heavens!  He  was  well  enough  this  morning.  What 
has  he  been  doing?" 

"Nothing,  as  I  knows  on,  Mr.  Tim.  That  audacious 
Jack  Jellicoe  was  with  him  for  nearly  an  hour.  Just  out 
of  prison,  too.  Seems  to  have  upset  your  father  terribly." 

Tim  became  scarlet.  Did  this  woman  guess?  Was  she 
trying  to  warn  him,  to  prepare  him  for  some  appalling 
shock?  With  a  tremendous  effort  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. 

"I  will  go  to  my  father,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

SCOURGINCS 


TIM  found  the  Vicar  staring  at  the  portrait  of  Mrs. 
White.  He  remembered  this  afterwards,  being  too 
excited  at  the  time  to  think  of  anything  except  impending 
catastrophe.  It  was  odd,  but  he  had  never  seen  his  father 
staring  at  that  beautiful  picture,  by  far  the  most  lovely 
object  in  a  prim,  dull  house. 

The  Vicar  turned  as  Tim  entered  the  room,  and  instantly 
the  boy  perceived  the  ravages  of  anger  and  the  more  subtile 
stigmata  of  intense  pain.  The  Vicar's  fine  face  was  white 
and  twisted ;  his  blue  eyes  were  blazing,  the  pupils  much 
contracted,  so  that  the  irides  seemed  of  a  larger  size  and 
deeper  in  colour. 

"Stand  there!"    The  Vicar  raised  a  minatory  forefinger. 

Tim  obeyed. 

"The  father  of  Ivy  Jellicoe  has  been  here."  The  Vicar 
spoke  in  a  strange  voice  to  Tim,  the  voice  of  a  furious 
man.  He  had  never  thought  of  his  father  as  capable  of  un- 
governable wrath.  So  the  archangel  might  have  appeared, 
the  mighty  Michael,  as  he  stood  at  the  gate  of  Eden,  bran- 
dishing his  flaming  sword. 

"He  tells  me,"  continued  the  Vicar,  "that  Ivy  is  in  trou- 
ble; you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"The  girl  lays  her  trouble  at  your  door.    Is  it  true  ?    Yes 

-or  no." 

"It  is  true." 

"My  God !"  exclaimed  the  Vicar. 
86 


Scourgings 


Tim  remained  silent. 

"You  have  defiled  this  house!" 

Tim  opened  his  lips  and  closed  them.  The  fatuity  of 
speech  overwhelmed  him.  The  Vicar  paused  for  an  instant. 

"You  seduced  this  child,  sir?" 

"No." 

"What  do  you  mean?    How  dare  you  take  this  line?" 

"It  happened,"  said  Tim  miserably,  "all  of  a  sudden.  We 
came  together  as — as  the  birds  do." 

The  Vicar  laughed  scornfully. 

"Indeed?  As  the  birds  do.  And  you  compare  yourself 
and  her,  creatures  made  in  God's  image,  to  the  birds,  who, 
let  me  remind  you,  rank  next  to  the  reptiles  in  the  scale 
of  creation.  The  birds!" 

He  lifted  his  hand. 

"I  am  tempted  to  strike  you." 

"Do  it,"  said  Tim. 

The  Vicar  sank  into  a  chair,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands.  An  eternity  of  silence  followed.  Finally,  when 
the  Vicar  spoke,  he  had  regained  somewhat  his  normal 
composure. 

"I  will  listen  patiently  to  what  you  have  to  say." 

Tim  wondered  what  he  could  say.    He  stammered  out: 

"I  am  ready  to  marry  Ivy." 

The  Vicar  sat  bolt  upright. 

"And  do  you  think  that  marriage  will  make  an  honest 
woman  of  her,  or  a  clean  man  of  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  faltered  Tim. 

"I  do  know.  I  regard  Marriage  as  a  sacrament,  the 
greatest,  perhaps,  of  all  sacraments  so  far  as  this  world 
is  concerned.  Did  you  promise  her  marriage." 

"No." 

"In  fine,  you  took  what  she  had  to  give,  giving  nothing 
in  return?" 

"We  wanted  each  other." 

"And  that,  in  your  opinion,  justifies  what  har  taken 
place?" 

87 


Timothy 

"I  don't  say  so." 

"Marriage,"  said  the  Vicar  trenchantly,  "will  not  satisfy 
the  exigencies  of  this  case.  It  could  only  lead  to  more 
misery  and  sin.  My  mind  is  clear  on  that.  More,  the 
unhappy  girl  does  not  demand  marriage,  nor  does  her  fa- 
ther. He  came  here  to-day  to  ask  for — money,  hush-money. 
His  attitude  is  that  of  shameless  indifference.  I  have  ar- 
ranged that  the  girl  shall  be  sent  away.  I  have  promised 
to  provide  for  her  and  her  unborn  child.  But,  mark  me 
well,  such  a  scandal  as  this  can  not  be  stifled.  The  truth 
will  leak  out.  Her  parents  are  not  the  only  persons  aware 
of  her  condition.  And  everybody  knows  that  she  was  here, 
a  servant  in  my  house,  under  my  protection,  and  presum- 
ably safe  in  my  keeping." 

The  mourn  fulness  of  his  tone  touched  the  boy  pro- 
foundly. 

"Father!" 

He  held  out  his  hands,  trembling,  in  a  white  heat  of 
supplication. 

The  Vicar  stood  up. 

"Don't  call  me  that !" 

"I  have  sinned,"  cried  Tim,  "but  you  are  my  father. 
Nothing  can  alter  that." 

"I  am  not  your  father,"  said  the  Vicar. 

Tim  heard,  but  did  not  understand.  There  was  another 
pause,  during  which  Tim's  boyhood  fled  from  him.  He 
confronted  the  other  as  a  man.  His  voice  deepened  as 
he  demanded  passionately : 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?" 

The  Vicar  answered  quietly: 

"I  would  spare  you,  if  I  dared.  In  your  interests,  not 
mine,  the  truth  must  be  told.  Sit  down!" 


Scourgings 


ii 

Tim  sat  down  upon  a  hard  Windsor  chair. 

"I  have  hoped  and  prayed,"  said  the  Vicar,  "that  the  day 
would  come  when  I  could  tell  you  the  facts  of  my  mar- 
riage to  your  mother  without  inflicting  pain  upon  either 
you  or  myself.  Such  a  day  would  have  come,  if  you  had 
justified  your  upbringing,  if  you  had  proved  yourself  strong 
enough  to  learn  the  truth,  which  would  have  brought  us 
nearer  together  in  a  communion  not  of  the  flesh  but  of 
the  spirit.  Before  God,  I  have  loved  you  as  a  son.  I  will 
add  this :  I  have  staked  my  happiness  and  peace  upon  you : 
I  have  said  to  myself  that,  if  I  failed  with  you,  I  should 
regard  my  life  as  a  failure.  And  I  so  regard  it  to-day." 

Tim  felt  himself  shrivelling,  scorched  and  consumed  by 
the  flame  in  the  speaker's  eyes. 

"Look  at  that  picture,"  commanded  the  Vicar. 

Tim  did  so.  His  lovely  mother  seemed  to  smile  down 
upon  them — derisively,  as  if  she  were  a  mute  witness  of 
their  common  suffering.  The  Vicar  continued  in  a  low 
voice,  articulating  each  phrase  slowly  and  painfully: 

''Your  grandfather  gave  to  me  my  first  living.  It  was  a 
parish  in  the  West  of  Ireland,  dominated  by  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic priest.  My  duties  were  light.  I  had  abundant  leisure 
to  reflect  bitterly  upon  my  own  helplessness  and  loneli- 
ness. I  met  your  mother.  She  was  a  lovely,  impulsive 
creature,  intensely  sympathetic,  but  weak  in  moral  fibre,  as 
you  are.  We  became  friends.  I  learned  to  love  her,  but  I 
was  aware  from  the  first  that  she  would  never  care  for 
me,  except  as  a  faithful  friend.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that 
this  was  enough.  I  did  help  her  to  bear  an  unhappy  lot. 
Your  grandfather  was  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his 
day;  he  was  also  a  drunkard,  a  gambler,  and  an  evil-liver. 
Brilliant  men  came  to  his  house,  because  he  was  a  wit, 
and  entertained  lavishly,  far  beyond  his  means.  Amongst 
his  guests  was  a  famous  politician,  unhappily  married  to 

89 


Timothy 

an  insane  wife.  He  fell  desperately  in  love  with  your 
mother,  and  she  with  him.  I  looked  on,  unable  to  interfere, 
knowing  what  was  at  stake — her  happiness  and  good  name. 
Meanwhile,  her  father  was  urging  upon  her  a  marriage  of 
convenience,  from  which  she  revolted.  And  then  the  dread- 
ful day  came  when  she  told  me  how  it  was  with  her,  and 
entreated  me  to  help  her." 

The  Vicar  paused.    Tim  said  thickly : 

"But  the  other — the  politician?" 

"Was  dead,"  the  Vicar  replied  sombrely.  "His  yacht 
went  down  in  a  gale  of  wind  in  Dublin  Bay." 

"And  you — you  married  her?" 

"Yes,"  muttered  the  Vicar.  "I  gave  her  the  protection 
of  my  name.  At  first  she  refused  to  accept  it,  but  she  was 
weak,  and  I  was  strong.  Perhaps  I  hoped  that  one  day 
she  would  become  mine.  That  day  never  came.  I  took 
her  abroad.  You  were  born.  Three  weeks  later  she  died 
in  my  arms.  Afterwards,  my  old  friend,  Sir  Gilbert,  offered 
me  this  living.  That  is  all." 

Tim  was  struck  dumb.  He  stared  at  his  mother's  pic- 
ture and  then  at  the  man  in  whose  arms  she  had  died; 
and  all  the  time  a  voice,  not  his  own,  seemed  to  be  re- 
peating : 

"He  is  not  your  father — he  is  not  your  father."  And  in 
answer  to  this,  as  if  from  a  great  distance,  the  Vicar's 
voice  floated  to  him: 

"Legally,  you  are  my  son.  I  accept  that  responsibility 
fully.  What  I  have  told  you  must  remain  a  secret  between 
us  to  the  end,  not  for  my  sake,  nor  yours,  but  for  hers." 

Tim  nodded,  too  dazed  to  speak.  But  gradually,  like  a 
heavy  mist  that  lifts,  his  mental  atmosphere  cleared.  The 
truth  was  terrible,  confounding,  but  he  wondered  that  some 
instinct  had  not  prepared  him  for  it.  The  Vicar  sat  very 
still,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  gazing  through  the 
window,  not  at  the  soaring  spire,  but  at  the  thick  hedge 
which  guarded  so  jealously  the  shrine  of  the  poet  and 
prophet. 
90 


Scourgings 

We  must  think  of  Tim  for  the  moment  as  recovering 
from  a  terrific  blow.  First  of  all  he  saw  himself  an  orphan, 
indeed ;  then  he  perceived  more  clearly  the  Vicar,  looking — 
even  as  Cook  had  said — sick  unto  death.  The  amazing 
virtue  which  informed  his  whole  kindly  presence  seemed 
to  have  gone  out  of  him.  Tim,  following  his  mournful 
glance,  knew  that  the  saint's  high  thoughts  had  descended 
to  earth,  and  lay  there  in  shattered  humiliation.  At  this 
moment  he  was  far  sorrier  for  the  Vicar  than  for  him- 
self— and  well  might  he  be! 

Lastly,  with  a  swallow's  flight,  he  swooped  from  the 
happy  village  to  Lanterton,  beholding  Ivy,  that  joyous 
nymph,  in  sore  trouble.  The  first  tears  he  shed  were  for 
her. 

"I  must  go  to  Ivy,"  he  faltered. 

"No,"  said  the  Vicar,  holding  up  his  hand.  He  spoke 
harshly,  almost  threateningly.  "That  is  part  of  your  pun- 
ishment. You  have  wrought  mischief  enough.  To  the  best 
of  my  poor  ability  I  have  tried  to  make  reparation.  The 
girl  leaves  her  home  this  day.  I  promise  you  that  she  shall 
be  cared  for.  When  did  you  see  her  last  ?" 

"Two  months  ago.     We — we  agreed  to  part,  sir." 

"I  gathered  as  much  from  the  father.  You  spoke  of 
marrying  this  unhappy  girl,  but  I  doubt  whether  she  would 
marry  you.  I  forbid  you  to  see  her." 

A  dull  resentment,  hounded  by  a  realisation  of  his  im- 
potence, began  to  burn  in  Tim.  Once  more  he  told  himself 
that  his  conduct  was  to  be  cut  and  dried  by  another,  that 
he  must  conform,  as  before,  to  the  dictates  of  authority, 
regardless  of  his  own  feelings  and  sensibilities. 

"That's  not  fair  on  me." 

"Possibly  not.    I  am  considering  her,  not  you." 

"Ivy  must  want  me — she  must." 

"If  her  father  is  to  be  believed,  she  does  not  want  you." 

Tim  groaned.  Yes;  he  could  conceive  of  Ivy  shrinking 
from  him,  turning  reproachful,  despairing  eyes  upon  him, 


Timothy 

upbraiding  him  bitterly,  forgetting  the  happiness  which  he 
had  brought,  thinking  only  of  the  shame. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Vicar  wearily,  "let  us  speak  of 
yourself,  your  future.  You  are  aware  that  you  are  not 
eligible  as  a  candidate  for  the  Indian  Civil  Service  without 
a  signed  certificate  from  me  testifying  to  your  moral  quali- 
fications for  a  profession  which  exacts  the  highest  integ- 
rity from  the  youngest  of  its  servants.  I  can  not  sign  that 
certificate." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Tim. 

"The  fact  of  your  expulsion  from  Eton " 

"Don't  rub  it  in !"  exclaimed  Tim.  "I  know  that  you 
can't  lie  about  me.  Do  you  think  I  would  ask  you  to  do 
so?" 

"Then  we  are  agreed  that  we  must  consider  something 
other  than  the  ordinary  professions  ?" 

"Yes." 

"There  remains — business.  There  is  no  other  field  for 
your  talents.  Meanwhile " 

He  paused,  sighing. 

"Yes  ?" 

"I  must  have  time  to — to  readjust,  to  have  a  clearer  vision 
of  you,  to " 

His  voice  died  away.    Tim  said  passionately: 

"Of  course  you  loathe  the  very  sight  of  me!" 

The  Vicar  blinked  at  him,  almost  feebly.  His  eyes  seemed 
to  have  become  dim  and  dull ;  the  anger  had  quite  gone  out 
of  them.  He  lay  back  in  his  chair  with  the  air  of  an  old, 
tired  man.  He  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  see  you  yet.    I  must  be  alone.    Leave  me !" 

Tim  moved  to  the  door.  As  he  reached  it,  the  Vicar  said 
incisively : 

"You  are  not  going  to  her?" 

"I  must  obey  you,  sir,"  said  Tim  bitterly.  "It  is  all 
that  you  ask  of  me,  and  you  have  the  right  to  ask  it." 

He  went  out  into  the  passage,  closing  the  door. 

92 


Scourgings 

in 

Tim  walked  to  the  coach-house,  animated  by  the  desire 
to  mount  his  bicycle,  and  rush  away  from  the  Vicarage. 
Then  a  thought  flew  into  his  mind.  He  ran  upstairs  to 
his  bedroom.  In  a  corner  lay  the  canvas  satchel  which 
he  had  carried  through  France.  He  crammed  into  it  a 
few  things,  and  then  scribbled  half  a  dozen  lines  upon  a 
sheet  of  notepaper.  He  told  the  Vicar  that  he  was  going 
away  for  a  couple  of  days,  that  he  meant  to  ride  off  the 
first  pangs  of  remorse,  and  spare  the  Vicar  the  sight  of 
his  face.  He  ended :  "I  swear  to  you  that  I  am  not  going 
to  Ivy." 

He  left  the  note  upon  the  hall  table,  and  mounted  his 
bicycle,  riding  slowly  through  the  village.  It  lay  placidly 
basking  in  the  amber  sunshine  of  an  autumnal  afternoon. 
Tim  passed  the  church  and  the  churchyard.  At  the  Lych- 
Gate  stood  an  open  fly  from  which  tourists  were  descend- 
ing, pilgrims  to  the  grave  of  the  poet.  Across  the  road 
stood  the  forge,  the  post-office,  and  the  principal  tavern. 
East  and  west  wandered  the  irregular  lines  of  houses  and 
cottages.  Out  of  the  girls'  school  children  were  streaming. 
Their  laughter  and  chatter  fell  insistently  upon  Tim's  ears. 
Northward  was  the  park,  with  its  herds  of  fallow  deer, 
its  splendid  trees,  its  open  wind-swept  spaces  sloping  to 
the  ponds  at  the  farther  end.  Everywhere  Tim  remarked 
ordered  simplicity  and  neatness,  as  if  some  beneficent  provi- 
dence had  taken  a  huge  pair  of  shears  and  then  clipped 
and  pruned  too  luxuriant  growths  according  to  immemorial 
pattern.  At  the  door  of  a  cottage  was  Lady  Pennington's 
phaeton,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  spirited  cobs.  A  groom  stood 
at  their  heads.  Tim  accelerated  his  pace,  unwilling  to  risk 
a  meeting  with  an  old,  kind  friend  of  keenest  insight  and 
unerring  judgment.  She  would  condemn  him,  when  she 
knew.  He  would  be  cast'  out  of  Pennington  House  as  un- 
worthy of  its  unstained  traditions. 

He  passed  the  stone  wall  of  the  Sanctuary,  peering 

93 


Timothy 

through  the  white  gate  at  the  smooth  gravel  sweep  bordered 
by  velvety  sward.  He  could  remember  swinging  upon  that 
gate  with  Daffy.  In  the  Dell  beyond  he  had  kissed  her.  A 
voice  called  him  by  name.  Arthur  Hazel,  the  dominie, 
waved  his  hand. 

"Whither  away?"  he  asked. 

Tim  answered  sharply: 

"I  don't  know."  And  then  he  clapped  on  the  brake,  and 
leapt  to  the  ground,  propping  the  bicycle  against  the  wall. 
He  spoke  eagerly  to  the  dominie : 

"Mr.  Hazel,  I  gave  you  a  lot  of  trouble  in  the  old  days, 
eh?" 

"No,  no.     I  loved  teaching  you." 

"Did  you?  Well,  I've  never  thanked  you;  I've  never 
told  you  that  you  were  awfully  patient  and  good  to 
me." 

Hazel's  pale  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"That  is  pleasant  to  hear,"  he  said  quietly.  "God  bless 
you,  my  boy." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  which  Tim  grasped,  unable  to 
speak.  He  remounted  his  bicycle,  and  sped  on,  hearing 
Hazel's  voice,  and  above  it  the  cawing  of  innumerable 
rooks.  Afterwards  he  could  never  think  of  the  village  with- 
out seeing  the  bent  figure  of  the  schoolmaster,  and  hearing 
the  rooks. 

A  minute  later,  by  an  odd  coincidence — or  was  it  more 
than  that? — he  encountered  Ernest  Judd.  He  wondered 
whether  Ernest  knew.  He  slowed  up,  as  Ernest  approached, 
trying  to  read  the  expression  upon  a  red,  bovine  face. 
Ernest  had  grown  into  a  stalwart  young  man.  Torn  by 
curiosity,  Tim  jumped  down,  and  accosted  his  former  friend 
and  disciple. 

"Hullo,  Journey!" 

"Good-day,  Mr.  Tim." 

Journey's  face  seemed  to  be  strangely  impassive.  Tim 
put  a  question  with  startling  abruptness : 

"Have  you  seen  Ivy  Jellicoe  lately?" 
94 


Scourgings 

Journey's  complexion  deepened  in  tint,  as  he  replied 
defiantly : 

"Yes,  I  have.    Why?" 

"How  is  she?" 

Their  eyes  met  aggressively.  Tim  glanced  up  and  down 
the  road.  Nobody  was  in  sight.  Journey  said  slowly: 

"You  know  how  she  is,  seemin'ly." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  she  told  me."    As  Tim  winced,  Journey  added : 

"Her  secret  is  safe  wi'  me,  Mr.  Tim.  God  A'mighty 
knows  that,  as  safe  as  'tis  with  Him." 

Tim  trembled. 

"I  saw  you  with  her  one  day." 

"Did  'ee?" 

"Journey,  my  fa — the  Vicar  knows." 

"Ah !  I  reckoned  that  Jack  Jellicoe  'd  go  first  to  t'  Par- 
son, pore  dear  man!" 

"I'm  in  the  most  hellish  trouble,"  said  Tim.  "I  feel 
like  killing  myself." 

"Ivy  feels  that  way,  too." 

Tim  recovered  his  self-possession. 

"Journey,  how  do  you  feel  about  it?" 

"  Tain't  none  o'  my  business,  Mr.  Tim." 

"But  you  liked  Ivy ;  you  walked  out  with  her.  Oh,  damn 
it !  you  must  know  a  lot  that  I'd  give  the  world  to  know. 
Can't  you  help  me?  Say  something — say  something.  I'm 
forbidden  to  go  near  her." 

"Ah !  That  be  common  sense,  to  be  sure !  She  don't 
want  'ee  to  come  nigh  her.  That's  truth,  Mr.  Tim." 

"It  seems  so  strange,  so  heartless." 

His  white  wretched  face,  his  trembling  limbs,  moved  the 
other  deeply.  Journey  began  to  blubber,  great  sobs  shaking 
him.  Tim  jumped  hotfoot  to  the  wrong  conclusion : 

"Oh,  Journey,  for  God's  sake,  don't  tell  me  that  you  cared 
for  her!" 

"I  be  tarr'ble  sorry  for  ee,  Mr.  Tim.  Yas,  I  be.  I'd 
like  to  comfort  ee,  yas,  I  would ;  I  be  blubberin',  like  a  fulish 

95 


Timothy 

maid  because  I  be  so  sorry  for  ee.  I  ain't  sorry  for  myself, 
and  I  ain't  too  sorry  for  Ivy,  because  she's  light,  Mr.  Tim. 
I  could  ha'  told  ee  that  afore  ever  you  met  her.  They 
Jellicoes  is  all  light.  'Tis  in  the  blood.  I  walked  out  wi' 
her  for  a  lark.  I  wouldn't  marry  such  as  she  not  for 
fifty  pound." 

"Heavens  1    She  was  light  with  you  ?" 

"No.  That  fair  madded  me;  yas,  it  did.  Because  I 
knowed  she  was  willin'  enough,  only  afeared.  I  make  bold 
to  swear  you  was  the  only  one,  Mr.  Tim.  She  got  after 
ee,  I'll  wager  my  life  on  that.  She's  light,  pore  dear  soul. 
It  was  tarr'ble  bad  luck  your  takin'  up  wi'  she.  And  now 
she  fair  hates  ee." 

"Hates  me?" 

"Aye.  'Tis  well  you  should  know  it.  Seemin'ly,  that 
proves  her  lightness  to  my  way  o'  thinkin'.  She  never  loved 
ee,  Mr.  Tim.  She  loved  the  good  times  you  had  together. 
And  when  you  got  nervous  and  miserable,  why  she  just 
turned  from  ee,  yas,  she  did,  and  laughed  at  ee — to  me." 

Tim's  cup  overflowed.  The  grim  humour  of  the  situa- 
tion appalled  him.  He  saw  himself  as  a  puppet,  the  play- 
thing of  Fate  and  a  village  girl.  Beside  him,  even  poor, 
blubbering  Journey  loomed  colossal.  The  blow  to  his  pride 
was  so  overwhelming  that  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  ex- 
cept the  instinct  of  the  wounded  animal  to  escape,  to  hide 
himself  for  ever  and  ever.  He  managed  to  disguise  his 
feelings  from  Journey,  grasping  him  fiercely  by  the  hand, 
so  fiercely  that  Journey  winced  with  pain. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"Where  be  goin,  Mr.  Tim?" 

Tim  answered  mechanically  as  before : 

"I  don't  know." 

IV 

Southampton  was  reached  within  an  hour.    As  he  passed 
through  the  Bargate,  Tim  became  conscious  of  an  extraor- 
96 


Scourgings 

dinary  thirst.  His  throat  was  parched ;  his  tongue  swollen ; 
and  an  evil  bitter  taste  filled  his  mouth.  To  quench  this 
awful  thirst  was  his  immediate  object,  but  he  purposely 
avoided  the  well-known  hotels,  riding  on  till  he  came  to 
a  tavern  near  the  docks,  frequented  by  the  better  class 
of  seamen,  mates  of  sailing  vessels,  and  the  like,  with  whom 
Tim  had  often  exchanged  agreeable  and  informing  talk. 
You  may  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  during  a  brief  sixty 
minutes  Tim  had  tackled  and  resolved  the  pressing  prob- 
lem of  his  future.  As  a  boy  he  had  been  enchanted  with 
Ouida's  famous  "Under  Two  Flags."  He  decided,  now, 
that  he  would  find  his  way  to  Algiers  and  offer  his  serv- 
ices to  the  Foreign  Legion ;  and  he  hoped  that  there  would 
be  plenty  of  fighting  with  Arab  sheiks,  and  the  welcome 
possibility  of  a  glorious  death.  He  selected  this  tavern 
partly  because  he  was  not  likely  to  meet  any  acquaintance 
there,  and  partly  because  he  wished  to  discover  the  quick- 
est and  cheapest  way  of  reaching  Algiers. 

The  bar  was  cosy,  furnished  with  old  mahogany,  and 
embellished  by  cases  of  stuffed  birds  and  butterflies.  There 
were  rows  of  cordials  in  square  cut-glass  bottles,  a  net  full 
of  lemons,  and  sundry  small,  highly  varnished  kegs,  brass- 
bound,  with  shining  brass  taps. 

The  licensed  victualler  behind  the  bar,  a  thick-set  fellow, 
had  distinguished  himself  locally  as  a  boxer.  And  next  to 
the  bar  was  a  large  room,  hung  round  with  portraits  of 
Jem  Mace,  Tom  Sayers,  and  other  pets  of  the  Fancy.  Any- 
body wanting  a  round  or  two  with  the  gloves  could  sat- 
isfy such  a  want  easily  and  quickly. 

Tim  called  for  a  pint  of  bitter,  and  partially  slaked  his 
thirst  by  swallowing  most  of  it  at  one  draught.  The  man 
behind  the  bar  nodded  to  him.  Tim  surveyed  the  com- 
pany. 

A  weather-beaten  individual  in  a  thick  pilot  jacket  chal- 
lenged attention.  He  seemed  a  cheery  sort ;  so  Tim  invited 
him  to  wet  his  whistle,  an  invitation  promptly  accepted. 
After  sparring  for  an  opening,  Tim  asked  for  special  in- 

97 


Timothy 

formation  about  Algiers.  Much  to  his  disappointment, 
the  man  in  the  pilot  coat  admitted  his  ignorance  of  Medi- 
terranean ports.  But  he  hazarded  the  opinion  that  Mar- 
seilles was  the  right  place.  Thence  Algiers  could  be  reached 
either  by  steam  packet  or  sailing  vessel.  After  more  talk, 
Tim  learned  that  his  companion  was  first  mate  of  a  four- 
master  sailing  next  day  to  San  Francisco,  a  three  months' 
voyage. 

"Jolly!"  said  Tim. 

"You  wouldn't  say  so  if  you  was  taking  in  sail  in  a  gale 
o'  wind,  my  lad,  off  the  Horn." 

"Must  be  awfully  exciting." 

"It  is,  my  lad.    Ever  been  to  sea?" 

"Never!" 

"I  thought  not.  You  have  a  drop  with  me  before  you 
go  home  to  lie  atween  clean  sheets." 

Tim  said  scornfully: 

"I  want  to  get  away  from  clean  sheets.  That's  wh) 
I  asked  you  about  Algiers." 

"Ho!    Trouble?" 

Tim  nodded. 

"Bit  o'  skirt,  I  dessay?" 

"Quite  right,"  said  Tim. 

The  mate  eyed  him  with  greater  interest,  marking  hia 
handsome  face  and  strong  body.  He  sighed  deeply,  growl- 
ing out : 

"I  was  never  much  bothered  with  females.  Always  sup- 
posed I  wasn't  to  their  taste,  and  grateful  I  am  to  Gawd  for 
that.  Give  you  the  chuck,  maybe  ?" 

"In  a  way  she  did,"  Tim  admitted.  He  was  afire  to  de- 
liver himself  of  his  burden,  for  he  felt  that  this  cheery 
fellow  might  be  sympathetic.  Just  then  the  talk  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  stranger,-  a  heavy-shouldered,  sandy-haired 
young  man  with  large  dirty  hands,  hanging  nautically  at 
his  side. 

"Be  you  Mr.  Tull?"  he  asked. 

"That's  my  name  right  enough." 
98 


Scourgings 

"First  mate  of  The  Cassandra?" 

"You've  hit  it  again?  What  you  want?" 

"To  work  my  way  to  'Frisco." 

"Ho !    Want  to  ship  with  me — hay  ?" 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do." 

The  mate  eyed  him  up  and  down,  very  critically,  whereat 
the  young  man  said  shortly: 

"I  can  fill  the  job." 

''I  dessay  you  can.    We  do  happen  to  want  one  more." 

Tim  jumped  up. 

"Take  me,  sir." 

The  "sir"  was  a  master  touch;  but  the  mate  laughed 
genially,  saying: 

"You  ?  Well,  I  admire  your  spunk,  but  ain't  you  a  gen- 
tleman ?" 

"I'm  strong  and  active.     Does  anything  else  matter?" 

The  newcomer  expectorated  his  disgust.  He  stared  of- 
fensively at  Tim,  stroking  a  chin  upon  which  bristled  a 
two  days'  growth  of  red  stubble. 

"Strong?  You?  I  could  lick  the  likes  of  you  with  one 
hand  tied  behind  me  back." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Tim  modestly.  He  appealed  per- 
suasively to  the  mate. 

"Do  take  me,  sir." 

"Shut  up  yer  girlie  face,"  said  the  other  applicant.  "I 
mean  business." 

"So  do  I." 

The  mate  scratched  his  head,  staring  harder  than  ever  at 
Tim. 

"I  like  the  cut  of  yer  jib,"  he  grunted,  "but  t'other  asked 
first.  Got  yer  discharges,  my  lad  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Take  me,"  pleaded  Tim. 

"You  say  one  more  word,"  interrupted  the  heavy- 
shouldered  young  man,  "and  I'll  knock  yer  bloomin'  'ead 
off." 

"You  are  at  liberty  to  try,"  said  Tim  politely.  The  mate 

99 


Timothy 

roared  with  laughter,  smiting  his  vast  thigh  with  a  hand 
not  much  smaller  than  a  leg  of  mutton. 

"Hold  hard !"  he  shouted,  for  Heavy  Shoulders  was  put- 
ting his  fists  up.  "We'll  settle  this  yere  little  difference 
of  opinion  in  the  next  room,  if  you  two  kids  is  agreeable." 
He  turned  to  Tim,  broadly  grinning:  "I'll  take  the  winner 
to  San  Francisco." 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Tim. 


The  preliminaries  of  this  sparring  match  were  soon  ar- 
ranged, the  Licensed  Victualler  gladly  taking  upon  himself 
the  duties  of  timekeeper  and  referee.  Tim  stripped  to  his 
jersey,  and  so  did  Heavy  Shoulders,  whose  massive  arms, 
bull  neck  and  immense  hard  hands  found  favour  with  the 
onlookers.  Nobody  was  willing  to  back  Tim,  except  the 
mate,  who  took  six  to  one  in  half  crowns.  A  dirty  pair 
of  gloves  were  pulled  out  of  a  cupboard,  somewhat  to  Heavy 
Shoulders'  disgust,  for  he  expressed  a  preference  for  bare 
knuckles. 

"No  fightin'  here,"  said  the  Licensed  Victualler.  "Just 
a  leetle  friendly  set-to.  Shake  'ands,  both  of  yer." 

The  young  men  did  so.  Heavy  Shoulders  scowled  vi- 
ciously. Tim  smiled.  He  was  no  tyro  at  the  game,  and 
eyed  with  pleasure  the  somewhat  weak  underpinning  of 
his  antagonist. 

"  'Ware  clinchin',"  said  the  Timekeeper. 

Heavy  Shoulders  rushed  in,  determined  to  end  the  fight 
with  one  blow.  Tim  side-stepped  neatly,  so  neatly  that 
Heavy  Shoulders  staggered  and  almost  fell.  A  professional 
fighter  would  have  taken  swift  advantage  of  the  stumble, 
but  Tim  waited,  still  smiling.  Heavy  Shoulders,  cursing 
freely,  advanced  more  cautiously.  Tim  countered  a  straight 
left,  landing  on  the  jaw  lightly. 
100 


Scourgings 

"I'll  take  five  to  one,"  said  the  Mate. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  round,  Heavy  Shoulders  was  pant- 
ing. Tim  was  fresh  as  paint.  The  Mate  said  to  him 
earnestly : 

"Keep  away  from  him.     Don't  mix  things  up!     See?" 

"Right,"  said  Tim. 

In  the  middle  of  a  more  lively  second  round  Tim  was 
knocked  off  his  legs,  but  sprang  up  quickly  with  a  bleed- 
ing mouth.  His  pleasant  smile  vanished  as  Heavy  Shoul- 
ders bored  in,  swinging  both  hands.  Tim  ducked  and 
escaped. 

"Good  foot-work,"  said  the  Mate  approvingly. 

Sticking  tight  to  his  man,  Heavy  Shoulders  landed  an- 
other blow.  Tim  was  hitting  twice  to  the  other's  once,  but 
his  blows  appeared  to  lack  force.  By  the  end  of  the  round 
Tim  showed  slight  signs  of  distress. 

"Stick  to  his  ribs,"  counselled  the  mate. 

Tim  profited  by  this  excellent  advice  during  the  third 
round,  ducking  and  side-stepping  till  Heavy  Shoulders 
swore  that  he  was  funking.  Three  times  Tim's  left  struck 
hard  and  true  just  above  the  belt,  but  he  was  slow  to 
follow  up  such  attacks. 

"I'll  take  four  to  one,"  remarked  the  Mate. 

Heavy  Shoulders  was  perspiring  profusely.  Looking  at 
his  set  face  and  protruding  chin,  it  might  be  inferred  that 
he  intended  to  finish  his  man — if  he  could. 

"You  watch  out  this  time,"  counselled  the  mate,  "and, 
look  ye  here,  when  you  hit  him  in  the  ribs  with  yer  left, 
follow  it  up  quick  with  yer  right,  on  'is  'ead !" 

"Ra — ther,"  said  Tim,  wiping  his  mouth. 

The  fourth  and  last  round  began.  Possibly  Tim  was 
sensitive  to  outside  criticism;  possibly,  too,  he  had  gained 
confidence.  When  Heavy  Shoulders  rushed  in,  he  stood 
still,  and  let  his  antagonist  close.  In  defiance  of  timekeeper 
and  referee,  Heavy  Shoulders  clinched,  but  as  he  did  so 
Tim  found  once  more  the  spot  just  above  the  belt,  and  his 
body  was  behind  the  blow.  Heavy  Shoulders  hung  weakly 

101 


Timothy 

for  an  instant.  Tim  let  go  his  right,  crashing  full  upon 
the  point  of  the  jaw. 

Heavy  Shoulders  was  down — and  out. 

It  may  be  said  of  the  defeated  youth  that  he  took  his 
licking  with  surprising  grace,  and  with  it  half  a  sovereign, 
with  which  Tim  could  ill  afford  to  part.  The  mate  clapped 
Tim  upon  the  back,  and  swore  that  he  had  the  makings 
of  an  able-bodied  seaman.  True  to  his  promise,  he  en- 
gaged Tim  there  and  then.  It  was  settled  between  them 
that  Tim  should  sell  his  bicycle,  and  buy  what  kit  was 
necessary,  the  mate  undertaking  to  help  him.  Finally  he 
said  heartily: 

"And  now,  my  lad,  what's  yer  name  ?" 

Tim  hesitated.    What  was  his  name  ?    He  replied  slowly  : 

"Timothy — Green." 

"Ho!  Green,  is  it?  Well,  my  lad,  salt  water  will  wash 
the  green  out  of  you  before  we  cross  the  Line.  Green — 
hay?" 

"Why  not,  sir?''  asked  Tim. 


102 


BOOK  TWO:     GREEN 


BOOK  TWO:    GREEN 
CHAPTER  I 


BUFFETINGS 


TIM  fell  in  love  with  the  sea,  being  obstreperously 
healthy,  but  it  was  not  love  at  first  sight.  For  a  time 
he  suffered  abominably  torments  of  mind  and  body.  Dur- 
ing twenty-four  hours  he  was  very  sea-sick.  The  smell  of 
the  foc'sle  made  him  heave  before  the  ship  did.  Homesick- 
ness assailed  him,  with  even  sharper  pangs,  as  he  stood 
upon  the  main  deck  of  The  Cassandra,  amid  a  litter  of  hen- 
coops, spare  gear,  and  'longshore  truck,  and  saw  the  woods 
of  Cadland  fading  out  abeam.  The  great  ship  followed  her 
tug  into  swashing  seas.  It  was  blowing  half  a  gale.  The 
Cassandra  jerked  and  jibbed  at  her  hawser,  as  if  she  was 
loath  to  leave  smooth  water.  The  black  smoke  from  the 
tug's  funnels  blew  into  Tim's  eyes,  and  made  them  water. 
Was  it  that,  or  something  else?  Sorely  was  he  tempted 
to  jump  overboard  into  the  yeasty  wake  and  end  all  mis- 
eries and  perplexities. 

Then  he  heard  the  voice  of  Tull,  the  first  mate,  heart- 
ening him  up  at  the  moment  when  he  was  wondering  dis- 
mally how  long  it  took  to  drown.  Tull  clapped  the  boy 
on  the  back,  bawling  out: 

"How  goes  it,  my  cock  o'  wax  ?" 

What  a  nerve-shattering  voice !  Tim  scraped  up  a  feeble 
smile.  The  mate  grasped  his  arm,  and  went  on  bawling : 

105 


Timothy 

"Get  some  salt  pork  into  you,  my  lad.  Nothing  like  that 
to  stick  to  the  ribs.  The  bo'sun  has  my  orders  to  go  easy 
with  you  for  a  spell,  but  ain't  this  grand — hay  ?" 

Tim  responded  feebly.  The  vitality  of  the  mate  was 
irresistible. 

"Dips  her  nose  into  it,  the  pretty  glutton !" 

Tim's  eyes  gazed  ahead  instead  of  abeam.  Pale  amber 
shafts  of  wintry  sunlight  pierced  the  flying  wracks  of  cloud ; 
they  whitened  the  foam  on  the  crest  of  the  waves  and  deep- 
ened the  brilliant  emerald  of  their  hollows.  As  the  ship 
bent  before  the  blast,  the  water  boiled  and  bubbled  through 
the  scuppers. 

"Ain't  it  good  to  be  alive?"  asked  the  mate. 

Something  in  Tim  made  him  answer  "Yes." 

"Go  below !  These  slippery  decks  ain't  safe  for  a  green- 
horn. Lie  snug!  You'll  be  right  as  a  trivet  before  we're 
out  of  the  Channel." 

Tim  went  below,  where  one  of  the  crew  for'ard  gave  him 
a  tin  full  of  boiling  coffee  and  a  biscuit.  Tim  had  shipped 
as  a  foremast  hand  (whatever  that  might  mean;  he  didn't 
know  or  care  at  the  time),  and,  although  The  Cassandra 
was  pitching  and  yawing,  he  was  not  yet  so  sea-sick  as  to 
be  quite  incapable  of  taking  a  squint  at  his  shipmates.  They 
were,  indeed,  a  fairly  good  lot,  for  The  Casandra  had  an 
honest  character;  and  her  skipper  was  neither  bully  nor 
beast;  but  what  a  ruffianly  crew  they  appeared  to  the 
Etonian!  What  Gadarene  swine!  Bearded,  salted  veter- 
ans, pallid,  greasy  foreigners — Turks,  heretics,  infidels, 
Jumpers  and  Jews.  That  line  out  of  the  dear  old  "Ingoldsby 
Legends"  came  into  his  mind  as  he  stared,  hollow-eyed, 
at  the  companions  with  whom  he  would  have  to  talk 
and  eat  and  sleep  and  work  during  three  long  months! 
Most  of  them  were  half  drunk,  smelling  evilly  of  beer 
and  bad  spirits,  cursing  sadly  because  work  had  yet  to 
purge  them  of  'longshore  appetites  and  lusts.  Heavens! 
what  a  rabble,  surely  the  scum  of  the  earth  and  the  high 
seas! 

106 


Buf  fetings 


The  Cassandra  began  to  pitch  more  heavily. 
Tim  crawled   into   his   bunk   and  wished   that  he  was 
dead. 

ii 

The  sickness  and  homesickness  passed.  And  with  it  much 
of  his  remorse.  A  boy  of  nineteen  can  easily  forgive  his 
enemy,  if  that  enemy  happens  to  be  himself.  The  sorrow 
and  disappointment  caused  to  the  Vicar  gnawed  sharply 
at  Tim's  conscience ;  but  he  could  view  with  detachment 
his  own  emotions.  He  tried  to  think  of  himself  as  a  great 
sinner,  but  failed,  remaining  desperately  sorry  for  the  Vicar, 
desperately  sorry  for  Ivy,  but  unrepentant  of  the  actual 
offence. 

The  crass  exactitudes  of  our  social  system,  its  shib- 
boleths and  hypocrisies,  fermented  windily.  Perhaps  he 
had  always  been  a  rebel,  questioning  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
the  dicta  and  injunctions  of  priests  and  teachers?  Why 
were  young  people  given  appetites  quite  as  strong  and  as 
importunate  as  hunger  and  thirst  if,  in  some  reasonable 
way,  they  were  not  intended  to  satisfy  them? 

Subdue  the  flesh! 

Why? 

Intemperance  in  any  gross  form  was,  of  course,  beastly. 
Tim  detested  gluttons  and  winebibbers.  But  this  terrible, 
unspeakable  sin  of  his  and  Ivy's.  Why  was  it  terrible, 
why  unmentionable  in  polite  circles? 

He  was  not  old  enough  or  wise  enough  to  answer  such 
questions.  Accordingly,  he  laid  them  aside,  sadly  puz- 
zled and  distressed  because  life  was  so  difficult  and  mys- 
terious. 

The  coarse  talk  in  the  foc'sle,  while  it  offended  his  ears,, 
soothed  his  conscience.  Everybody  knew  that  he  was  a 
gentleman's  son,  who  had  bolted  from  a  too  tempestuous 
petticoat.  Tim  would  have  been  a  fool  had  he  not  per- 
ceived that  he  was  regarded  by  his  fellows  as  a  lively  young 

107 


Timothy 

spark.  What  he  had  done  found  favour  in  their  sight. 
They  demanded  details,  and  were  sulky  when  Tim  refused 
to  gratify  salacious  curiosities. 

The  food,  like  the  talk,  tvirned  his  stomach  at  first,  but 
soon  he  learned  to  wolf  it  with  the  rest,  just  as  he  learned 
to  smoke  pungent,  acrid  tobacco. 

He  won  respect  with  his  fists,  although  pounded  to  a 
jelly  by  a  man  bigger  and  stronger  than  Heavy  Shoulders. 
This  fellow  was  continually  sneering  at  the  "gentleman"  and 
playing  dirty  tricks  on  him,  unmentionable  pranks.  His 
name  was  Nazro,  and  he  came  from  Massachusetts,  a  gaunt, 
big-boned  Yankee,  a  bull  of  a  man,  with  raucous,  bellowing 
voice,  and  a  huge  foot  ever  ready  to  kick  a  man  less  pow- 
erful than  himself,  and  a  fist  as  ready  to  fall  upon  heads 
thicker  than  his  own.  A  bully,  and  yet  brave,  brave  as 
Nelson  when  a  hurricane  howled,  and  Death  grinned  up 
aloft  at  the  end  of  a  yard ! 

Tim  stood  it  as  long  as  he  could ;  then  he  fought  like 
a  wildcat;  and  was  half  killed.  When  he  recovered  con- 
sciousness, Nazro  jeered  at  him : 

"That  gal  you  was  stuck  on  thought  you  the  h — 11  of  a  fine 
feller!  Pity  she  can't  see  you  now." 

Tim  staggered  up;  his  eyes  were  battered,  but  the  fire 
had  not  gone  out  of  them.  He  limped  towards  his  con- 
queror. 

"I've  one  more  word  to  say  to  you." 

"Thunder!    You  want  another  lickin'?" 

"No;  that's  why  I'm  talking  now.  I  fought  you  fairly 
and  was  thrashed.  I  sha'n't  fight  fairly  next  time." 

The  men  present  pricked  up  their  ears.     Nazro  grinned. 

"You've  a  nerve,  you  sucker,  you !" 

Tim  spoke  distinctly: 

"If  you  play  any  more  beastly  tricks  on  me,  I  shall  wait 
till  your  back  is  turned,  and  then  I'll  split  your  bull's  head 
open  with  anything  that  is  handy." 

"I  kin  see  you  doin'  it." 

"No,  you  won't.    You'll  see  ten  thousand  stars." 
108 


Bufferings 

Nazro  perceived  that  the  boy  meant  it.  Once  again  qual- 
ity confronted  quantity,  and  quality  prevailed.  Nazro  let 
Tim  alone;  after  a  time  they  became  friends. 

Thus  Tim  lived  and  learned. 

The  circle  of  his  sympathies  grew  larger.  The  hands 
for'ard  talked  nauseatingly  of  women,  and  in  particular 
of  those  forlorn  creatures  whom  Tim  had  been  brought 
up  to  consider  as  utterly  lost,  and  quite  beyond  the  pale 
of  respect  or  real  esteem.  Nevertheless,  these  rough,  bru- 
tally outspoken  men  made  Tim  realise  that  the  Mollies  and 
Dollies  of  the  waterfront  possessed  fine  qualities :  charity 
— which  covereth  many  sins — pluck,  and  even  fidelity.  Tim 
held  his  peace,  marvelling  at  human  nature,  and  conscious 
of  a  strange  expanding.  He  was  not  yet  weaned  from  Pen- 
nington  pap  as  he  sucked  in  this  strong  drink  from  the  hairy 
breasts  of  strong  men. 

Their  strength  appealed  to  him  enormously.  When  he 
staggered  on  deck,  after  his  bout  of  sea-sickness,  he  was 
amazed  at  the  change.  Everything  was  shipshape  and  clean. 
The  litter  and  lumber  had  been  stowed  away;  the  decks 
and  gear  had  been  miraculously  cleansed  by  the  great 
seas. 

And  it  seemed  to  be  so  with  the  men.  A  gale  of  wind, 
not  yet  passed,  had  cleansed  them.  Eyes  were  less  bleary ; 
skins  grew  cleaner.  At  the  bo'sun's  pipe,  the  hands  sprang 
up,  alert  and  eager,  ready  for  any  task  that  might  be  im- 
posed, but  it  takes  nearly  three  weeks  to  wash  the  beer  out 
of  most  of  them. 

He  learned  another  lesson,  the  rule  of  thumb,  so  to  speak, 
which  constitutes  the  code  of  ethics  of  the  poor,  a  code 
jealously  guarded,  for  the  simple — who  are  not  so  simple 
as  they  seem — repeat  like  parrots  what  the  gentle  expect 
them  to  say,  what  the  gentle  have  dinned  into  their  patient 
ears  during  countless  generations.  Tim  discovered  the 
truth  when  he  became  of  the  poor,  poorer  than  they,  inas- 
much as  he  was  ignorant  of  their  crafts  so  laboriously 
acquired.  His  ignorance  of  knowledge  vital  to  them  seemed 

109 


Timothy 

at  first  immeasurable,  infinitely  greater  than  their  ignorance 
of  Latin  and  Greek  and  mathematics. 

This  was  the  rule  of  thumb: — 

Fortitude  is  reckoned  by  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea 
in  ships  to  be  a  greater  virtue  than  chastity ;  generosity  soars 
high  above  justice ;  courage,  that  king  virtue,  is  greater 
than  truth  or  even  love.  Tim  salted  down  this  new  text: 
"And  now  abideth  three  things,  Health  and  Luck  and  Pluck, 
and  the  greatest  of  these  is  Pluck !" 


in 

The  Cassandra  struck  a  hurricane  on  the  lower  edge  of 
the  Bay,  a  genuine  Biscayer,  when  the  tempest  ruled  su- 
preme, and  even  the  huge  waves  were  flattened  by  its  vio- 
lence, unable  to  raise  their  angry  crests,  crouching  like  sullen 
hounds.  The  great  ship  became  the  plaything  of  the  gale, 
a  broken-winged  bird  upon  the  waters,  hove-to  under  close- 
reefed  topsails,  drifting  ever  to  leeward,  while  the  Skipper 
cursed  and  the  men  for'ard  swapped  stories  as  dirty  as 
the  weather. 

But  Tim  was  not  frightened,  and  this  conviction  forti- 
fied him.  Every  gallant  youth  wonders  how  he  will  feel 
and  what  he  will  do  in  moments  of  deadly  peril.  As  a 
rule  circumstances  constrain  him  to  do  nothing,  which  chafes 
to  madness  his  sensibilities.  Tommy  Atkins,  on  his  tummy, 
fingering  the  trigger  of  his  rifle,  but  sternly  commanded 
not  to  pull  it,  whilst  the  shrapnel  is  screaming  overhead, 
knows  what  the  deadly  sickness  of  inaction  is.  Jack,  snug  in 
the  foc'sle,  when  the  green  seas  are  awash  from  stem  to 
stern,  and  the  wind  howls  a  "Thanatopsis,"  may  and  often 
does  cut  his  joke,  but  his  heart  shrivels  within  him. 

Tim's  heart  did  not  shrivel   when  the  green  seas  were 

awash  from  stem  to  stern.     If  the  bo'sun's  pipe  sounded. 

he  donned  his  oilskins  and  seaboots,  and  rushed  riotously 

into  action.    At  that  moment  he  regretted  nothing  except 

no 


Buf  fetings 

his  ignorance,  but  he  did  his  best  to  learn,  and  he  learned 
fast. 

Fine  weather  followed ;  and  The  Cassandra  moved  majes- 
tically upon  an  even  keel,  carrying  every  stitch  of  canvas, 
even  her  skysails.  She  was  steel-built,  of  the  early  eighties, 
a  miracle  of  speed  and  symmetry,  handled  by  a  master, 
with  the  right  men  under  him. 

Tim  expected  to  be  bored,  but  his  hands  and  mind  were 
everlastingly  busy ;  at  night  he  slept  soundly  and  dream- 
lessly,  falling  dog-tired  into  his  hard  bunk,  but  awaking 
fresh  and  invigorated,  keen  as  a  hound  for  a  fresh  trail, 
eager  to  beat  his  mates  at  their  own  game.  His  neck  thick- 
ened ;  his  chest  expanded ;  his  muscles  became  hard  as 
hickory. 

The  past  had  faded,  like  the  distant  woods  upon  the 
Solent.  He  gazed  joyously  into  the  future.  His  ambitions, 
for  the  moment,  fluttered  like  petrels  upon  the  high  seas. 
To  command  such  a  ship  as  The  Cassandra,  to  be  lord  of 
his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  others,  to  sail  on  and  on 
through  cloud  and  sunshine — this  surely  was  worth  the 
doing,  a  nobler  task  than  administering  justice  to  half- 
famished  Hindus,  and  cramming  Western  ideas  down  East- 
ern throats,  with  a  liver  twice  its  normal  size,  and  a  com- 
plexion the  colour  of  dirty  skilly! 

Nazro  and  he  talked  together. 

The  New  Englander  was  first  and  last  a  seaman,  who  had 
served  his  apprenticeship  cod-fishing  upon  the  banks  of 
Newfoundland.  He  feared  neither  man  nor  devil,  was 
a  liar  of  the  first  magnitude,  and  something  of  a  humour- 
ist. Tim  loved  his  lies,  because  they  indicated  a  per  fervid 
imagination  and  a  quality  as  yet  strange  to  him,  essentially 
transpontine,  a  desire  to  shine  before  other  men  as  your 
true  salt  of  the  world,  your  pickled,  pickling  swashbuckler, 
the  irrepressible  buccaneer ! 

A  Captain  Kidd  of  a  fellow! 

"You  mark  me,  you  sucker,  you !  Geysers  and  Gizzards ! 
Ain't  you  green  ?" 

in 


Timothy 

"It's  coming  out  in  the  wash,"  said  Tim  modestly. 

"You  bet!  Wai,  sonny,  I  was  greener  than  you  onct. 
I  was  the  greenest  boy  on  the  Banks.  That's  a  dead  cold 
fact,  and  somethin'  to  cheer  ye  up.  But  I  was  always 
full  o'  ginger,  as  you  air.  That's  why  I  waste  my  time 
talkin'  to  ye.  Handsome,  too.  The  girls  couldn't  keep 
their  hands  off  me.  I  was  merried  a  dozen  times  before 
I  was  thirty!  Yes,  sir,  a  bigamist!  I  blazed  my  trail 
through  the  wimmenfolk  from  Maine  to  Californy." 

"From  the  North  Pole  to  the  South  ?" 

"You  grin  at  me,  and  I'll  wager  no  girl'll  ever  grin  at 
you  agen.  Now,  I've  done  with  the  petticoats.  Fed  up 
with  'em.  Drink  has  mastered  me.  I  can  drink  more  bad 
liquor  than  any  man  on  earth,  and  never  shew  it.  I  was 
a  champion  eater  onct.  Yes,  I  was.  Consumed  eighteen 
eggs,  three  Porterhouse  steaks  and  a  leg  o'  mutton  at  one 
sittin',  and  as  a  starter  I  hed  to  down  a  dozen  sugared 
oysters.  Ever  eat  a  sugared  oyster  ?" 

"Never." 

"One  'd  make  ye  bring  up  yer  liver  and  lights!  Yes, 
sir,  I've  bin  cock  o'  many  walks.  What  I  don't  know  ain't 
wuth  knowin'.  And  I'll  learn  ye  some  of  it,  because  yer 
full  o'  snap.  Yer  ignerunce  fatigues  me  awful." 

"You  are  very  kind." 

"I  ain't.  I'm  the  h — 11  of  a  feller,  a  rag'lar  devil.  I  seen 
the  devil  in  you  when  you  swore  to  cut  my  head  open.  I 
cottoned  to  ye  then  and  there.  Say,  what  you  mean  to 
do  when  we  fetch  'Frisco?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Course  ye  don't.  Likely  as  not  ye'll  be  shanghaied  the 
first  night,  and  wake  up  to  find  yerself  in  blue  water  agen, 
in  a  ship  compared  to  which  this  yere  is  a  young  ladies' 
seminary." 

"Perhaps  you  will  steer  me  a  bit." 

"I  will.  Any  hankerin'  after  gold  dust?  It's  a  mug's 
game,  minin',  but  some  of  'em  strike  it.  I  found  one  o* 
the  biggest  nuggets  in  Australia,  bigger'n  my  head.  I  blew 

112 


Bufferings 

that  nugget  in  three  days,  and  was  King  o'  Melbourne  for 
precisely  that  length  o'  time." 

"Isn't  mining  played  out  in  California?" 

"Wai,  it  is  and  it  isn't.  Californy  is  the  Golden  State, 
but  the  gold  don't  come  out  o'  the  placers  as  it  did,  and 
t'other  sort  o'  mining  comes  high.  Kin  you  ride?" 

"A  little." 

"I  kin  ride  anything  with  hair  on.  I  was  a  broncho- 
buster  once.  I  mind  me  of  a  bucking  pinto  that  threw 
every  cowboy  that  climbed  on  to  its  back  inside  o'  two 
minutes  by  the  clock.  I  rode  that  devil  round  and  round 
a  corral  f  er  twelve  hours  without  stoppin' !  The  boys  sat 
on  the  rail,  and  slung  cup-custards  at  us,  which  I  scraped 
off  and  swallered  to  keep  my  strength  up.  Ever  hear  the 
like  o'  that?" 

"Never." 

"The  trouble  with  me,  sonny,  is  this.  I  was  born  to  the 
sea,  and  I  can't  live  off  it.  The  sea  keeps  me  straight, 
keeps  me  out  o'  the  Penitentiary.  No  women  at  sea,  and 
mighty  little  drink." 

"But  you  said  you'd  given  up  women?" 

Nazro  rolled  a  melancholy  eye. 

"That's  truth.  But  they  won't  give  me  up.  They  help 
themselves — see?  It's  a  crool  combination,  women  an' 
drink !  You  put  that  into  the  barrel  f  er  keeps !  Druv  me 
into  terrible  crimes.  I've  robbed  stages ;  held  up  trains. 
That's  why  I'm  here,  sonny,  far  from  sheriffs  and  their 
cursed  depities,  a-talkin'  to  you  and  tryin'  to  work  the  green- 
ness outer  yer !" 

"I'm  ever  so  much  obliged,"  said  Tim. 

IV 

Tull,  the  first  mate,  threw  crumbs  of  talk  to  our  hero, 
which  he  ate  and  digested  at  his  leisure.  First  mates,  by 
the  nature  of  sea  things,  cannot  engage  in  conversation  with 
foremast  hands.  Tull,  however,  kept  an  eye  on  the  boy, 


Timothy 

and  chuckled  to  himself  when  he  perceived  that  Tim  did 
his  duty  with  alacrity,  and  showed  far  greater  aptitude  than 
any  of  the  apprentices,  whom  Tull  condemned  in  words 
not  to  be  repeated. 

Tull  was  the  antithesis  of  Nazro,  an  honest  sea-dog,  not 
a  sea-wolf  with  fangs  sharpened  to  slash.  Tull  had  a 
reverence  for  the  great  waters  and  all  therein  and  thereon 
which  Nazro  would  have  scoffed  at.  He  had  begun  life, 
like  Nazro,  as  a  fisherman,  and  then  had  served  a  long 
apprenticeship  before  the  mast.  He  knew  a  ship  as  some 
skippers  never  learn  to  know  her,  regarding  her  not  as 
a  vehicle  for  Traffics  and  Discoveries,  but  as  a  sentient 
being  answering  to  the  voice  and  hand  of  Man.  Often  re- 
bellious and  intractable,  but  obedient  to  her  master  in  the 
end.  Tull,  perhaps,  was  the  only  man  of  The  Cassandra 
who  recognised  Tim  as  a  gentleman,  and  took  him  seri- 
ously as  such.  Probably  the  good  fellow  had  been  born 
in  some  village  not  unlike  Little  Pennington. 

"Coming  on  fine,  you  are,"  he  would  say,  in  the  middle 
watch,  when  Tim  was  at  the  wheel.  This  praise  filled  Tim 
with  pleasure. 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Nice  perlite  boy !  Stick  to  that — the  perliteness,  I  mean. 
It  pays  even  in  the  foc'sle.  So  Nazro  licked  you,  hay?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"He's  rotten  bad,  is  Nazro,  but  not  so  black  as  he  paints 
himself,  my  lad.  A  very  gifted  liar!  And  a  fine  example 
of  what  not  to  be.  Been  homesick,  hay?" 

"It  has  passed,  sir." 

"Good!" 

He  would  walk  away  after  such  meetings,  grunting  to 
himself  and  grinning.  Then,  perhaps,  he  would  turn,  and 
raise  a  warning  finger : 

"Don't  you  go  and  forget,  my  lad,  all  that  they  taught 
you  over  there,"  indicating  the  right  and  tight  little  island 
with  a  wave  of  his  vast  hand. 

Tim  wondered  whether  he  was  forgetting.  Little  Pen- 
114 


Buf  fetings 

nington  remained  as  a  soft  blur  upon  his  horizon  growing 
more  and  more  indistinct.  Anything  would  divert  his 
thoughts  from  it,  a  school  of  flying  fish  or  porpoises,  an 
albatross,  the  sight  of  another  ship,  unless  it  happened 
to  be  homeward  bound. 

When  he  hinted  slyly  to  Tull  that  he  thought  of  adopt- 
ing the  sea  as  a  profession,  the  old  shell-back  eyed  him 
up  and  down  somewhat  derisively : 

"Ho!    I  dessay  you'd  like  to  command  a  clipper?" 

"By  Jove,  I  should!" 

"  Tain't  everybody's  job,  my  lad ;  and  a  hard  life,  too." 

"You  like  it,  sir?" 

"I  lump  it,  boy.  Take  it  as  it  comes,  rough  and  smooth, 
and  more  rough  than  smooth.  Be  in  no  hurry!  The 
right  job  comes  to  the  right  man,  or  he  goes  to  it.  Never 
knowed  an  exception  to  that  rule." 

"I'm  keen  about  it,  sir." 

"Aye!  Keen  and  green.  The  two  sail  together.  You'll 
be  less  keen  when  the  greenness  goes." 

Tim  candidly  admitted  that  he  was  green.  He  was  oddly 
pleased  with  himself  for  taking  the  name  temporarily !  When 
would  he  change  it  for  another? 

"I  shall  never  be  White  again,"  he  thought. 

Had  he  been  born  white?  What  truth  was  there  in 
this  seemingly  monstrous  doctrine  of  Original  Sin?  Must 
the  child  of  sinners  be  born  a  sinner?  Obviously,  the 
Vicar,  dear  saint,  was  cocksure  of  it.  Because  of  this  con- 
viction had  he  not  strained  himself  to  breaking  point  in 
his  efforts  to  conquer  heredity  with  environment? 

Was  he  a  very  grievous  sinner?  Why  did  Nazro  ac- 
claim the  devil  in  him? 

Such  thoughts  do  not  pester  healthy,  active  young  men. 
Tim  dismissed  them  lightly,  but  they  returned  like  homing 
doves.  They  swooped  upon  him  in  calm  weather,  when 
the  canvas  flapped  idly  from  the  yards,  and  the  sea  became 
a  blue  carpet,  and  the  work  to  be  done  exacted  muscle,  not 
mind. 


Timothy 


He  had  written  to  the  Vicar  upon  the  morning  he  sailed 
from  Southampton,  telling  him  that  he  had  assumed  the 
name  of  Green.  The  answer  to  that  letter,  and  other  let- 
ters, would  await  him  at  San  Francisco.  He  wondered 
whether  the  scandal  had  leaked  out.  Did  Sir  Gilbert  know  ? 
What  would  he  say  ?  By  Jove !  Wasn't  a  fellow  well  out 
of  this  horrid  mess? 

And  Ivy,  who  hated  him? 

Journey  was  right;  the  fact  that  she  hated  him  proved 
her  light  and  heartless,  an  animal.  But  he  thought  of  her 
often,  contrasting  and  comparing  her  with  the  Jills  be- 
longing to  the  Jacks  in  the  f oc'sle.  Heavens !  She  did  not 
shine  out  above  such  odorous  comparisons! 

Had  he  really  loved  her? 

This  was  a  knotty  question,  hard  to  be  unravelled.  For 
a  season  he  had  been  mad  about  her,  willing  to  make  any 
sacrifices.  He  could  think  of  her  tenderly  still,  and  of 
her  burden. 

But,  try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  visualise  himself  as 
a  father. 


The  Cassandra  made  her  southing  gallantly,  crossing  the 
Line  thirty  days  out  from  Southampton,  and  heading  swiftly 
for  the  Calms  of  Capricorn.  Father  Neptune  did  not  come 
aboard,  so  Tim  was  spared  some  man-handling  and  buf- 
foonery. But  he  was  by  now  active  enough  to  go  aloft  by 
the  chain  runners  of  the  topsail  halliards,  hand  over  hand ; 
and  he  knew  nearly  as  much  about  running  gear  as  the 
youngest  apprentice,  which  is  feeble  praise. 

Tim  began  to  long  for  another  storm.  Nazro  smiled 
complacently : 

"I  know  the  feelin',  you  young  sucker.  It  claws  at  one ; 
it  ain't  to  be  denied.  You'll  hev  it  worse  ashore." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  wait,  Mister  Green !  Wait  till  yer  foot  strikes  the 
116 


Bufferings 

water  front  o'  'Frisco,  and  you  feel  money  in  yer  pocket, 
and  Tiger  Town  is  up  yonder,  and  the  big  saloons.  Won't 
you  sail  bang  into  the  storm  then?  I  wonder!" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Tim. 

"You  wait,  my  young  chick!  Storm?  Gizzards  and 
Corsets!  The  wind  from  places  I  know'll  blow  the  sticks 
bang  outer  ye." 

And  he  laughed  again  more  riotously  than  before. 

Tim  edged  away  from  him,  hating  his  evil  face  and  his 
leering  eyes. 

"None  of  that  for  me,"  thought  Tim.  Nazro  pursued 
him. 

"Scared,  eh  ?  Wai,  sonny,  I'll  tell  ye  this.  Don't  you  be 
a  baby,  whinin'  afore  .yer  hurt." 

"I  have  been  hurt." 

"Pshaw!  Scratched — that's  all.  Waitin'  fer  a  blow,  air 
ye?  Right!  Let  yerself  rip  when  it  does  blow.  Clap 
on  all  sail — and  scoot!  That's  life;  that's  suthin'  wuth 
waitin'  fer.  Calms  is  for  old  women  and  children.  Ain't 
yer  tumbled  to  that  yet?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Tim. 

The  bo'sun  piped. 

Nazro  sprang  to  attention,  listening.  The  wind  was  drum- 
ming hard  upon  the  great  mainsail,  and  above  that  deep 
diapason  booming  rose  the  shrilling  of  stays  and  backstays, 
high  notes  of  distress,  no  more  to  be  mistaken  than  the 
swift  fall  of  the  glass. 

"We're  in  fer  a  reg'lar  out-'n-outer,"  said  Nazro.  "I've 
smelled  it  comin'  fer  an  hour  past." 


VI 

"All  hands  aloft !    Up  you  go !    Be  lively !" 
The  Skipper  had  a  fault  which  all  stout  seamen  will  ex- 
cuse.   He  hated  to  shorten  sail  till  the  last  moment,  loathed 
it  as  a  man  may  loathe  the  clipping  of  an  eagle's  wings. 

117 


Timothy 


Beside  Tim  was  a  young  man,  named  Preble,  the  son 
of  a  petty  tradesman  in  Southampton,  a  long,  lank  youth, 
better  equipped  to  put  sand  in  sugar  than  into  his  own 
heart.  He  muttered  to  Tim  nervously : 

"Ain't  this  awful?    I'm  all  of  a  tremble." 

Tim  cursed  him. 

"Get  the  topsails  off  her!"  shouted  the  Skipper. 

"Oh,  Lord !"  squeaked  Preble. 

The  bo'sun  bawled  his  orders,  blowing  his  whistle  lustily. 
Soon  Tim  sprang  up  the  fore-rigging,  followed  gingerly 
by  Preble.  The  wind  was  terrific.  The  men  crawled  out 
upon  the  yard-arm,  tugging  at  the  canvas  till  their  fingers 
bled.  The  great  sail  came  in  slowly,  reluctantly,  defying 
the  strong,  gripping  hands. 

"I  can't  stand  it  much  longer,"  groaned  Preble. 

"You  must,  you  fool !"  shouted  Tim.  The  boy  was  drunk 
with  excitement,  but  he,  too,  knew  that  his  muscles  were 
being  strained  beyond  endurance,  that  either  he  or  the 
ship  must  conquer,  and  the  sail's  victory  might  mean  death 
to  such  as  Preble.  A  violent  squall  shook  The  Cassandra, 
as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat.  Tim  heard  a  ghastly  scream,  loud 
above  the  infernal  din  of  the  gale.  Preble  had  disap- 
peared. He  might  have  fallen  overboard,  or  crashed  on  to 
the  deck  below.  Nazro,  furling  at  the  bunt,  with  the  sec- 
ond greaser,  yelled  savagely:  "Claw  her  in,  you  lubbers!" 
Tim  felt  deadly  sick.  He  remembered  that  he  had  cursed1 
Preble. 

Yet  they  went  on  with  that  cruel  fight  against  the  roaring 
wind  till  they  ceased  to  be  men  and  became  machines,  auto- 
matic hawlers  and  grabbers,  obeying  orders  and  knowing 
that  disobedience  or  slackness  stood  for  destruction.  They 
got  the  sail  in  and  made  it  fast  with  the  gaskets. 

When,  at  long  last,  they  got  down  on  deck,  there  was 
Preble,  dead.  They  carried  him  into  the  foc'sle.  The  thin 
body  was  crushed  to  a  pulp.  He  had  fallen  upon  his  feet ; 
and  his  head  remained  uninjured.  Tim  could  hardly  be~ 
lieve  that  he  had  died  a  violent  death. 
118 


Buffetings 

Next  day,  the  gale  was  over.  The  Skipper  read  the 
burial  service,  and  his  mates  slid  the  shattered  corpse  into 
the  deep.  They  sold  Preble's  duds  at  the  mainmast — and 
forgot  him! 

Oh !  It  was  good  to  be  alive  after  that,  to  feel  the  spray 
and  wind  upon  one's  cheek,  and  the  red  blood  pulsing 
through  one's  veins! 


119 


CHAPTER  II 

DREGS 


IN  due  time  The  Cassandra  dropped  anchor  in  Golden 
Gate  Bay,  and  Tim  saw  Mount  Tamalpais  and  Diablo 
rising  out  of  a  soft  mist  which  obscured  the  crudities  and 
ugliness  of  the  water-front. 

The  voyage  was  over.  Soon  he  would  go  ashore,  a 
free  man,  with  the  new  world  holding  out  enticing  arms 
and  the  old  world  far  away!  The  run  from  the  Horn 
to  the  Farallon  Islands  had  been  barren  of  incident.  They 
had  sailed  smoothly  and  swiftly  upon  summer  seas,  be- 
speaking few  vessels,  alone  upon  the  vast  Pacific.  Towards 
the  end  Tim  felt  bored.  And  when  he  smelt  the  land  he 
told  himself  that  his  ambition  to  command  a  clipper  lay 
dead  in  the  deep,  like  poor  Preble. 

When  they  were  berthed  alongside  the  wharf,  Tull  took 
him  aside. 

"Look  ye  here,  my  lad.  Cut  loose  from  Nazro  at  once. 
Here's  the  address  of  a  decent  boarding-house  uptown.  You 
keep  away  from  the  water-front  and  its  saloons,  unless  you 
want  to  be  drugged  and  crimped." 

"I  don't,  sir." 

"Then  you  mind  what  I  say.  I  reckon  there'll  be  letters 
for  you  at  the  post-office." 

"I  hope  so." 

"You  read  'em  afore  you  do  anything  else.  Freeze  tight 
on  to  your  bit  o'  cash.  Earn  more,  my  lad.  Work'll  keep 
you  out  of  mischief." 

"I  can't  thank  you  enough,  sir,  for  all  your  kindness.    I 
wouldn't  have  missed  this  experience  for  anything." 
120 


Dregs 

"It's  made  a  man  of  you." 

It  had — in  every  sense.  When  Tim  put  on  his  shore 
togs,  he  realised  how  much  he  had  grown.  They  might 
have  belonged  to  a  younger  brother.  He  felt  as  if  he  would 
burst  out  of  them  if  he  sneezed.  And  putting  them  on  was 
an  amazing  adventure,  whirling  him  out  of  one  world  into 
another.  Through  a  white  collar  much  too  tight  he  beheld 
Little  Pennington  clearly,  with  sharpest  definition.  The 
evil-smelling  foc'sle  grew  dim.  As  his  fingers  fumbled  at 
his  necktie,  he  thought  of  Daffy,  who  was  particular  about 
such  gear.  The  shortness  of  his  trousers  annoyed  him. 
He  became  the  Etonian  as  he  stared  at  his  scarred,  tar- 
engrained  hands. 

Everybody  in  the  foc'sle  knew  what  Nazro  was  going 
to  do  with  his  time  and  money.  He  said  complacently : 

"Yes,  boys,  I'm  hell  bent  fer  a  snorter.  I  shall  paint  this 
yere  little  burg  my  own  partic'lar  purple.  I'm  pinin'  fer  a 
game  o'  faro.  I'm  jest  achin'  fer  a  partic'lar  brand  o' 
whiskey  punch  which  a  barkeep  I  know  has  the  secret  o' 
makin'.  I  shall  down  a  dozen  of  'em  straight,  jest  to  see 
if  I've  lost  the  gift  of  holdin'  liquor.  Gizzards!  won't  I 
make  things  sit  up  and  howl  to-night !" 

Tim  parted  soberly  from  his  mates,  wondering  perhaps 
when  and  where  he  might  meet  them  again.  Some  of  them 
would  herd  together  till  the  last  cent  was  "blued."  Then 
they  would  take  up  their  life  again,  find  themselves  home- 
ward bound,  ready  to  be  cleansed  afresh.  Never  would 
they  or  could  they  escape  from  the  old  seaways,  the  paths 
which  they  must  tread  till  the  end. 

Tim  gripped  their  horny  hands  and  bade  them  "good- 
bye" and  "good  luck." 


II 

He  found  a  packet  of  letters  at  the  post-office,  which  he 
read  alone  in  his  room  at  the  boarding-house  uptown.    The 

121 


Timothy 

Vicar's  letter  was  read  first.    It  had  been  written  a  month 
previously,  two  months  after  Tim's  departure. 


"My  DEAR  BOY  : — 

"I  am  trying  to  picture  you  as  you  read  this  letter 
after  the  great  experiences  through  which  you  have 
passed.  I  know  that  bitterness  must  have  been  washed 
out  of  you  as  it  has  out  of  me.  And  now  you  are  alone 
and  in  a  great  city.  May  God  be  with  you ! 

"I  send  you  fifty  pounds.  It  will  suffice  to  bring  you 
home,  Tim,  if  you  wish  to  return  home.  That  is  as  you 
decide.  My  house  is  yours.  Remember  that! 

"You  will  be  grieved  to  hear  that  we  have  lost  our  old 
friend,  Sir  Gilbert.  He  passed  away  quietly  at  Christ- 
mas, after  a  sharp  attack  of  pneumonia.  It  must  be  well 
with  him,  for  his  whole  life  was  a  preparation  for  death. 
His  son  reigns  in  his  stead. 

"There  are  no  other  changes.  The  scandal  which  drove 
you  to  sea  leaked  out,  as  I  feared  it  would.  Like  all  other 
scandals,  it  will  fade  away.  Ivy  Jellicoe  is  being  cared 
for.  The  unhappy  girl  is  hardened  and  indifferent,  like 
her  father.  I  blame  myself  bitterly  for  bringing  her  to 
this  house. 

"And  now,  my  dear  boy,  what  shall  I  say  to  you?  I 
ask  myself  if  I  did  ill  in  telling  you  the  truth.  I  must 
assume  the  responsibility,  which  is  a  burden  to  me.  And 
yet,  apart  from  any  cloying  sentiment,  I  realise  that 
something  stronger  than  personal  feeling  made  me  tell 
you  that  truth,  which  I  might  have  withheld  had  I  fore- 
seen the  possibility  of  your  tearing  yourself  adrift  from 
me  and  the  influences  of  this  village.  It  is  too  late,  now, 
to  dwell  upon  that. 

"Tim,  as  your  father  in  spirit,  as  one  who  has  your 
welfare  nearer  to  his  heart  than  anything  else,  I  entreat 
you  to  let  that  truth  strengthen  you.  You  have  inherited 
great  qualities,  the  qualities  which  may  carry  you  to  the 
heights.  You  have  inherited,  alas !  great  disabilities, 
which  may  drag  you  down  to  the  depths.  Because  you 
are  stronger  and  handsomer  and  cleverer  than  your  fel- 
lows, the  fight  ahead  will  be  the  more  strenuous.  But  I 
122 


Dregs 

should  be  false  to  every  clause  in  my  creed  if  I  did  not 
believe  steadfastly  that  good,  ultimately,  triumphs  over 
evil.  Nourish  the  good  within  you,  and  it  will  drive  out 
the  evil!  Start  afresh!  At  this  moment  I  seem  to  see 
you  at  your  best,  clean  and  strong  and  free,  out  of  the 
bondage  of  men  spiritually  and  mentally  your  inferiors, 
gazing  unblinkingly  into  the  sunshine  of  California, 
ready  to  fly,  eager  to  fly  fast  and  far!  Let  that  flight 
be  upward ! 

"Write  to  me  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Your  loving  father, 

"TERTIUS  WHITE." 

Tim  sat  still  upon  the  edge  of  a  narrow  bed  staring  at 
the  scholar's  fine  script.  He,  also,  could  see  the  Vicar  at 
his  desk,  writing  slowly,  casting  and  re-casting  each  sen- 
tence in  his  mind  before  he  transferred  it  to  paper.  Now 
and  again  he  would  pause  to  glance  at  the  spire. 

Tim  fingered  the  cheque  for  fifty  pounds.  The  Vicar  was 
a  poor  man.  Fifty  pounds  meant  self-denial,  a  more 
rigorous  cheese-paring  in  a  household  kept  simply  and 
frugally. 

He  decided  to  return  the  fifty  pounds  at  once. 

Should  he  take  it  back  ?  That  meant  working  his  passage 
round  the  Horn  again.  And  then? 

The  scandal  had  leaked  out.  Could  he  face  the  blameless 
village?  Not  yet. 

He  glanced  at  his  other  letters.  There  was  one  from 
Eustace  Pomfret.  He  guessed  accurately  enough  what  that 
good  fellow  would  say.  There  were  two  or  three  small 
Christmas  bills.  The  Vicar  had  paid  them.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  small  pile  lay  a  square  envelope.  With  a  gasp  of 
astonishment,  Tim  recognised  Daffy's  writing.  He  tore  it 
open  and  glanced  at  the  date.  It  had  been  written  about 
a  week  after  he  left  England — 

"DARLING  TIM, 

"I  have  just  made  a  perfectly  hateful  discovery.    You 
wrote  to  me  and  I  never  saw  the  letter.    I  am  wild  with 

123 


Timothy 

rage  about  it.  Annie"  (Daffy's  eldest  sister)  "said  some- 
thing which  roused  my  suspicions.  I  rushed  to  mother 
and  just  wormed  the  truth  out  of  her,  but  your  letter  had 
been  burnt.  Mother  took  it  upon  herself  to  answer  for 
me.  I  can  easily  guess  what  she  said.  Oh,  Tim,  what 
must  you  have  thought  of  me !  I  am  so  miserable  !  And 
I'm  writing  this  against  mother's  wish,  secretly.  Tim, 
darling,  I  am  true  to  you,  and  I  know  you  are  true  to  me. 
Perhaps  you  aren't.  You  must  think  me  such  a  rotter. 
Please  write  at  once,  and  put  me  out  of  my  misery. 
Everything  is  perfectly  hateful  and  miserable.  I  think 
nothing  of  your  being  sacked  from  Eton,  nothing  at  all. 
It  was  beastly  hard  luck  your  getting  caught !  I'm  quite 
sure  you  weren't  drunk,  as  Mother  hints. 
"Please  write  by  return! 

"Your  own, 

"DAFFY." 

Tim  re-read  the  letter  with  throbbing  pulses.  Then  he 
glanced  again  at  the  square  envelope.  It  was  inscribed 
Private.  Upon  the  back  the  Vicar  had  written  something 
in  pencil.  Obviously,  he  had  not  opened  the  envelope,  for 
a  big  red  seal  was  intact,  but  he  knew  Daffy's  handwriting. 
This  was  his  comment:  "Mrs.  Carmichael  knows  about 
Ivy  Jellicoe." 


in 

Some  of  the  language  acquired  at  the  foc'sle  dropped 
from  Tim's  quivering  lips.  He  felt  flattened  out  by  the 
bludgeonings  of  Fate. 

Such  a  small  thing  had  queered  his  pitch.  Let  us  try 
to  reproduce  his  thoughts,  as  they  bubbled  out  of  his 
mind  through  a  much  enlarged  vocabulary.  If  Daffy  had 
received  his  letter  and  answered  it,  he  would  have  resisted 
the  beguilements  of  Ivy.  He  knew  that.  Daffy  had  stood 
between  him  and  other  temptations.  Why  didn't  he  guess  ? 
Why  didn't  he  give  the  darling  credit  for  a  fidelity  and 
124 


Dregs 

pluck  which  he  knew  to  be  hers?  She  was  barely  sixteen, 
but  what  of  that? 

Let  dogs  defile  the  grave  of  Mrs.  Carmichael! 

And  now  it  was  too  late.  Daffy  knew  the  disgusting 
truth.  He  could  hear  the  mother  discreetly  telling  the 
story,  bowdlerising  parts  of  it,  the  essential  parts,  but  ob- 
literating for  ever  and  ever  the  image  of  Tim  as  it  lay 
enshrined  in  a  maiden's  bosom. 

"This  is  the  worst,"  said  Tim,  pacing  up  and  down  his 
tiny  room,  wild  with  misery  and  rage. 

He  was  tempted  to  dash  his  head  against  the  wall  till 
he  fell  senseless.  He  had  seen  a  Sicilian  do  this  in  the 
foc'sle  of  The  Cassandra.  How  he  despised  the  silly  idiot! 

What  a  sickening  business  life  was ! 

He  flung  open  a  window,  and  looked  out  over  San  Fran- 
cisco. He  could  see  that  vast  caravanserai,  the  Palace 
Hotel,  and  the  Chronicle  skyscraper  beside  it,  overtopping 
all  other  buildings.  Cable  cars,  quite  new  to  him,  were 
speeding  up  a  steep  hill.  The  traffic  of  Market  Street 
boomed  in  his  ears.  His  first  impression  was  that  of  pace. 
Even  the  foot-passengers,  men  and  women,  pushed  along 
swiftly,  as  if  keen  to  reach  their  destinations. 

He  must  join  them,  push  on  with  them,  and  find  a  way 
out  of  his  miseries. 

Within  a  minute  he  was  striding  up  Market  Street,  head- 
ing west,  towards  the  declining  sun. 

Great  cities,  like  great  rivers,  have  their  unmistakable 
characteristics.  Some  appear  to  be  eternally  old;  a  few 
remain  eternally  young.  Each  has  its  individual  smell,  its 
atmosphere,  its  definite  sounds.  If  you  approach  London 
by  river,  you  get  the  taste  of  it  in  your  mouth,  before  you 
recognise  St.  Paul's.  But,  possibly,  of  great  cities,  San 
Francisco  is — or  used  to  be — the  most  amazing  amalgam, 
whilst  remaining  essentially  itself.  When  Tim  first  looked 
upon  Mount  Tamalpais  hardly  thirty-five  years  had  elapsed 
since  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California.  The  city  he  be- 
held had  been  built  during  that  period  of  time,  built  by 

125 


Timothy 

and  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  Spaniards,  Ital- 
ians, Frenchmen  and  Chinese  lived  in  their  own  quarters, 
pursuing  their  avocations  regardless  of  the  ever-encroach- 
ing Anglo-Saxon.  It  was  a  city,  in  a  sense,  of  reconcilable 
differences.  Next  to  a  plutocrat's  palace  might  be  seen  a 
board-and-batten  shanty.  The  men  occupying  such  con- 
trasted habitations  might  have  come  West  together.  One 
had  risen;  the  other  had  not.  Evidences  of  really  sordid 
poverty  were  hard  to  find;  but  the  rich  and  the  poor,  gen- 
erally speaking,  had  not  yet  drifted  apart.  It  was  Cosmop- 
olis,  with  a  sharp  pleasant  flavour  of  Bohemia.  Amongst 
other  cities,  it  stood  out  as  being  shamelessly  wicked,  be- 
cause Vice  had  not  yet  slunk  out  of  sight.  Vice,  indeed, 
lived  out  of  doors,  and  was  the  less  pestilent  and  dangerous 
on  that  account.  Values,  in  a  word,  those  nice  adjustments 
which  an  advanced  civilisation  imposes,  were  being  com- 
puted slowly.  The  old-timers,  who  had  become  prosperous, 
hated  to  wipe  out  old  landmarks.  They  loved  the  colour 
of  the  different  quarters.  Guides  took  curious  strangers 
into  opium  dens  and  the  like.  Call  it  a  "live  and  let  live" 
city,  and  have  done  with  it!  Men  were  too  busy  minding 
their  own  affairs  to  bother  greatly  about  the  affairs  of 
others. 

Tim  found  his  way  to  Golden  Gate  Park,  not  the  ordered 
pleasance  then  that  it  is  to-day.  He  sat  down  upon  a 
bank. 

Spring  comes  early  to  California  and  lingers  long  in  its 
favoured  spots.  Spring  was  abroad  this  afternoon  touch- 
ing all  things  with  her  magical  fingers.  The  Park,  how- 
ever, seemed  to  be  deserted.  Along  the  main  roadway  sped 
men  in  sulkies  or  light  buggies  driving  fast  trotters.  Tim 
saw  no  women  or  children.  He  gave  himself  up  to  his 
thoughts. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  felt 
absolutely  alone. 


126 


Dregs 


IV 

His  love  for  Daffy  was  tearing  at  his  mind  and  his  senses. 
Critics — of  life  as  they  would  desire  it  to  be  rather  than 
the  welter  of  haphazard  variations  and  permutations  which 
it  is — may  contend  that  Tim  was  only  nineteen,  and  in- 
capable at  that  age  of  intense  feelings  which  do,  unques- 
tionably, spare  the  great  majority  of  striplings.  It  may  be 
said  in  reply  that  he  was  old  beyond  his  years,  and  blessed 
or  cursed  with  ardent  inherited  imaginations.  Daffy  had 
ceased  to  be  the  jolly  little  sweetheart.  In  her  artless  letter 
he  had  a  glimpse,  no  more,  of  the  woman  latent  in  every 
female  child.  She  stood  to  him  as  The  Woman,  the  in- 
visible, indescribable  She,  who  has  inspired  poets  and  paint- 
ers for  all  time.  Daffy,  he  told  himself,  possessed  the 
mysterious  power  of  whirling  him  outside  himself,  of  ex- 
alting him  to  heights,  of  firing  him  to  supreme  endeavour. 

And  he  had  lost  her,  because  a  mother,  acting  within 
accorded  rights,  had  suppressed  a  letter. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  till  long  afterwards  that  Daffy 
might  forgive  him.  In  that  regard  Little  Pennington  had 
accomplished  its  task  only  too  well.  Daffy,  poor  darling, 
would  accept  the  verdict  of  the  only  world  she  knew.  She 
would  be  revolted,  beholding  her  hero  metamorphosed  by 
Circe  into  a  swine. 


The  fog  rolled  in  from  the  ocean.  Tim  returned  to 
his  boarding-house  and  tried  to  choke  down  some  food. 
Then  he  wandered  again  into  the  streets  full  of  well- 
dressed,  cheery  persons  on  their  way  to  theatres  and  other 
places  of  entertainment.  San  Francisco  by  night  was  nearly 
as  gay  as  Paris,  but  not  so  brightly  illuminated.  A  seedy 
individual  approached  him,  trying  to  conceal  a  furtive,  hang- 
dog air. 

127 


Timothy 

"Like  to  see  the  sights,  sir?" 

"What  sights?" 

"China-town." 

"Beastly  place,  I've  heard." 

"Take  you  round  for  a  dollar.  Here's  my  badge.  I'm 
O.K.,  an  authorised  guide.  You'll  be  quite  safe  with  me. 
I'll  shew  you  Hell." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  O.  Kay,  I've  been  there  this  afternoon. 
Good-night !" 

He  pushed  on,  leaving  the  man  staring  after  him.  Across 
the  road  was  a  famous  saloon,  embellished  by  many  pic- 
tures. Tim  went  in  and  called  for  a  cocktail.  Opposite  the 
bar  was  a  free-lunch  counter  piled  high  with  food.  Men 
of  the  better  class  drank  and  nibbled  and  chattered.  Their 
talk,  to  which  Tim  listened,  concerned  itself  mainly  with 
business,  with  proposition.  Every  man  had  a  "proposition" 
of  sorts.  Obviously,  California  bristled  with  opportunities. 
Things  seemed  to  be  humming. 

"Biggest  bonanza  I  ever  struck,"  he  heard  one  silk- 
hatted  but  short-coated  individual  remark.  "Finest  land  in 
the  State.  And  the  water  handy  to  make  it  bloom  like  the 
rose !  Put  you  in  on  the  ground  floor." 

"I'm  up  against  a  bigger  thing,"  replied  his  companion. 
"You  read  this." 

He  thrust  a  pamphlet  into  the  other's  hand,  and  assumed 
an  expectant  attitude,  with  his  cigar  cocked  at  an  angle 
of  45  degrees. 

Upon  a  red  velvet  lounge  sat  three  young  men,  tourists 
and  Englishmen.  They  were  talking  of  sport,  of  the  fish- 
ing to  be  found  in  British  Columbia.  Tim  began  to  listen 
to  them,  to  find  pleasure  and  envy  in  their  familiar  phrases. 
One  of  them  turned  presently,  and  stared  hard. 

"Hullo!"'  he  said,  rising.     "Surely  you're  Tim  White?" 

When  he  spoke  Tim  recognised  an  Etonian,  an  Oppidan 
and  a  distinguished  cricketer. 

"I'm  Tim  Green." 
128 


Dregs 

"Tim — Green?  Same  old  joker!  What  are  you  doing 
"here?" 

"Landed  this  morning." 

"It's  jolly  to  see  you  again.  Going  round  the  world,  as 
I  am?" 

Tim  smiled  derisively. 

"Not  quite  as  you  are,  Wynne.  I've  worked  my  way 
round  the  Horn,  before  the  mast!" 

"Suffering  Moses !  I  say,  you  fellows,  come  over  here. 
Let  me  introduce  an  old  Eton  pal.  Mr.  Keppel — Sir  Harry 
Jocelyn — Mr.  Timothy  White." 

"Green,"  said  Tim  gravely. 

The  others  laughed,  not  taking  Tim  seriously.  Wynne 
recited  the  astounding  fact  that  Tim  had  worked  his  way 
to  San  Francisco  before  the  mast.  He  ended  up: 

"What  a  bird !  He  got  sacked  for  nipping  out  of  College 
at  night.  We  were  awfully  sick  about  it.  Round  the 
Horn  I  I  say,  that  takes  a  bit  of  doin'." 

Tim's  face  relaxed.     Wynne  continued  genially: 

"You  look  as  fit  as  a  fiddle,  and  hard  as  nails.  Jove! 
I'd  sooner  drink  with  you  than  fight.  Round  the  Horn! 
Phew-w-w !" 

"Any  adventures?"  asked  Keppel. 

"None." 

"I'll  bet  you  held  your  own,"  said  Wynne.  "Look  here, 
old  chap,  you've  got  to  spend  the  evening  with  us.  We'll 
whoop  things  up  a  bit,  and  listen  to  your  yarns.  We've  a 
box  at  the  Tivoli,  and  they're  doing  The  Mikado.  I  saw  it 
nineteen  times  in  London.  Come  on!" 

Tim  hesitated,  glancing  at  his  clothes.  Wynne  laughed 
gaily : 

"You  have  grown  out  of  'em,  Tim,  but  we  don't  care  a 
rush  about  your  duds,  if  we  can  have  the  man  inside 
'em." 

"You  can  have  what's  left  of  him,"  said  Tim. 

"There  seems  to  be  quite  a  lot  left,"  said  Keppel,  with 
his  eyes  upon  Tim's  bulging  muscles.  He  was  frail  of 

129 


Timothy 

build,  not  likely  to  make  old  bones,  the  senior  by  some  years 
of  the  others  and  evidently  in  command.  He  added  courte- 
ously: "I  am  glad  you  can  join  us." 


VI 

They  spent  a  joyous  evening.  Tim  had  never  seen  the 
famous  opera.  It  whirled  him  temporarily  to  Japan,  and 
thence  to  London,  as  he  reflected  bitterly  that  his  compan- 
ions had  means  and  leisure  for  such  enjoyments  and  what 
they  stood  for.  Later  the  four  supped  at  the  Poodle  Dog. 
Wynne  said: 

"We  must  drink  White's  health  in  something  fizzy.  Hi, 
you!  a  bottle  of  wine." 

Out  West  a  bottle  of  wine  means  champagne. 

Jocelyn  spoke  of  his  own  country,  Dorset.  Tim  remem- 
bered that  the  Carmichaels  lived  not  far  from  Dorchester. 
He  said  carelessly: 

"Do  you  know  the  Carmichaels?" 

"Quite  well.  Charming  people.  The  little  girl,  Daphne, 
is  a  fizzer,  likely  to  be  a  beauty,  and  as  jolly  and  clever 
as  they  make  'em.  She  hunts  with  the  Cattistock  and  goes 
like  a  bird.  Men  are  buzzing  about  her  already." 

"Are  they?"  said  Tim,  gulping  down  his  champagne. 

"Do  you  know  them,  White  ?" 

"Oh,  yes;  they  Jived  in  our  village,  Little  Pennington." 

Wynne  added: 

"White's  father  is  the  Vicar  of  Little  Pennington."  He 
glanced  at  Tim.  "I  can  remember  your  telling  us  about  the 
happy  village,  and  all  the  saints." 

Tim's  collar  felt  at  least  three  sizes  too  small  for  him, 
as  the  desire  gripped  him  to  deny  Wynne's  statement.  He 
wanted  to  say:  "Look  here,  the  Vicar  of  Little  Penning- 
ton is  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  but  he's  not  my 
father."  He  became  very  red,  as  he  controlled  a  twitching 
tongue. 

130 


Dregs 

"What  can  we  do  now?"  asked  Wynne. 

The  head  waiter,  a  lively  Frenchman,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"Ces  Messieurs  desirent  un  plongeon?" 

"Un  plongeon?" 

"Sapristi !     You  can  plonge  into  ze  dives." 

''Let's  dive,"  said  Wynne. 

They  did  so,  plunging  from  the  cool  breezes  of  Kearney 
Street  into  an  atmosphere  reeking  of  tobacco  smoke  and 
humanity.  A  large  hall  was  full  of  men,  sitting  on  benches 
and  at  small  tables. 

"Like  a  box,  genelmen?     Hall's  kinder  crowded." 

"A  box,  by  all  means,"  said  Wynne. 

They  were  ushered  into  a  large  box,  meretriciously  up- 
holstered with  red  velvet  and  practicable  curtains.  It  was 
above  the  stage  upon  which  some  girls  were  dancing.  They 
looked  up  and  smiled  as  the  young  men  entered. 

"What  will  you  take  to  drink?"  asked  the  waitress. 

"Beer,"  replied  Keppel. 

Wynne  looked  about  him,  laughing: 

"I  say,  you  fellows,  this  is  the  best  of  the  dives.  What's 
the  worst  like,  eh?" 

"We  won't  try  to  find  out,"  said  Keppel. 

Tim  looked  at  the  four  girls  on  the  stage.  They  were 
young  arid  fairly  pretty,  raddled  with  powder  and  paint. 
They  glanced  and  danced  at  him  audaciously. 

"Hullo,  Tim,"  exclaimed  the  vivacious  Wynne.  "You've 
mashed  the  quartette,  by  Jove !" 

"They'll  be  up  here  in  a  jiffy,"  said  Keppel.  "We'll  give 
'em  a  drink  and  let  'em  go.  They  get  a  percentage  on  the 
drinks,"  he  explained. 

"Poor  little  devils,"  said  Wynne. 

As  soon  as  the  "turn"  was  over,  the  quartette  appeared, 
taking  for  granted  that  they  were  welcome.  But  they 
looked  slightly  contemptuous  when  they  were  invited  to 
drink  beer.  The  prettiest  and  sauciest  said  to  Tim : 

"We  took  you  for  wine-drinking  sports." 


Timothy 

At  this  Keppel,  who  had  paid  dearly  for  his  experience, 
said  politely: 

"What  do  you  make  on  a  couple  of  bottles  of  champagne  ?" 

"Quit  that!" 

"I'm  dead  serious.     Come,  how  much?" 

One  of  the  girls  laughed  and  named  the  amount.  Keppel 
gave  her  some  money,  saying  pleasantly : 

"There  you  are!  Sit  down  and  talk.  Business  before 
pleasure." 

The  prettiest  girl  said  to  Tim : 

"I  like  you,  boytie — sure!" 

Tim  thought  of  Ivy,  and  then  of  Daffy.  He  had  been 
warmed  to  the  core  by  good  food  and  sparkling  wine ;  and 
he  had  not  spoken  to  a  girl  for  three  months.  But  he  felt 
in  an  instant  sick  and  sore.  He  replied  hoarsely : 

"Don't  waste  your  time  on  me." 

She  pinched  his  arm. 

"My!  what  a  muscle.  Say,  girls,  just  feel  his  arm! 
What  a  shoulder-striker!" 

The  quartette  fell  riotously  upon  Tim,  who  defended 
himself  as  best  he  could.  A  voice  from  the  hall  yelled 
out: 

"No  scrappin'  allowed,  except  on  the  stage." 

Everybody  applauded  this,  and  stared  at  the  stage  box. 
Keppel  said  incisively : 

"You  girls  behave,  or  we  shall  hook  it." 

Order  was  restored.  Tim  pulled  a  pencil  from  his  pocket 
and  made  caricatures  of  the  girls  upon  the  programme  at 
which  they  screamed  with  laughter.  Keppel  said : 

"By  Jove,  you  have  a  talent.  Can't  you  turn  it  to  ac- 
count?" 

One  of  the  girls  answered : 

"Say — you  see  our  boss.  There's  money  in  it.  Make 
drawin's  like  that  of  fellers  in  the  audience.  My !  I  forgot 
you  was  a  toff." 

"I  am  not,"  said  Tim,  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  then 
that  either  Keppel  or  the  girl  spoke  seriously. 
132 


Dregs 

Presently  duty  summoned  the  young  ladies  back  to  the 
stage,  whereupon  Keppel  observed  meaningly: 

"Let's  skedaddle  before  they  come  back.  It  will  make 
things  easier  for  them  and  us." 

Jocelyn  wished  to  stay,  spoke  of  "making  a  night  of  it," 
but  wiser  counsels  prevailed.  Tim  kept  silence,  but  he  was 
thinking  of  what  Nazro  had  said.  Something  within  him 
urged  him  to  fling  dull  care  to  the  winds,  to  sail  into  a  gale 
of  excitement,  to  drink,  to  make  love,  to  forget. 

The  young  men  walked  back  to  the  Palace  Hotel.  On 
parting,  Wynne  whispered  to  Tim: 

"Where  are  your  diggings?  I'll  look  you  up  to-morrow 
morning.  I  want  a  yarn  alone  with  you." 

Tim  named  his  boarding-house. 

"Ask  for  Green." 

"Why,  wasn't  that  a  joke?" 

"Not  much." 

VII 

Tim  pondered  many  things  in  his  heart  as  he  turned 
from  the  magnificent  hotel  to  seek  his  own  drab  lodgings. 
He  had  laughed  and  jested  with  the  others,  paid  in  full  his 
shot  for  a  cheery  evening,  and  now  it  was  over.  His 
friends  of  a  night  were  flitting  across  the  Pacific  to  China 
and  Japan.  Did  he  wish  that  he  was  going  with  them? 
He  tried  to  answer  the  question  which  included  so  much. 

If  he  could  be  as  they ?  Keppel  had  the  air  of  one  not 

too  well  pleased  with  himself.  Jocelyn  and  Wynne  were 
jolly  boys,  evidently  young  men  of  great  possessions,  fling- 
ing money  about  right  and  left.  Tim  had  a  splendid  vision 
of  a  promising  servant  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  persona 
grata  to  Mother  Carmichael,  on  his  way  to  the  Orient, 
where  preferment  and  lakhs  of  rupees  awaited  him,  a  Tom 
Tiddler's  ground  strewn  with  gold  and  silver! 

"I'm  green  indeed,"  he  groaned. 

He  was.  At  that  moment,  quite  unconsciously,  he  ex- 

133 


Timothy 

hibited  the  colour  to  two  loafers.  Lost  in  his  thoughts  he 
lost  his  way,  taking  the  wrong  turning  out  of  Market 
Street,  sauntering  head  down,  into  an  ill-lighted  side  alley. 
The  loafers  pursued  noiselessly.  Tim's  gloomy  thoughts 
were  put  to  flight  by  a  stunning  blow  on  the  head. 
He  had  been  sandbagged! 


134 


CHAPTER  III 

POPPIES  AND  MANDRAGORA 


HE  returned  to  consciousness  to  find  a  policeman  bend- 
ing over  him.  Tim's  head  felt  larger  than  the  dome 
of  St.  Paul's,  and  his  body  seemed  to  have  vanished.  But 
soon  he  realised  that  nothing  was  missing  except  a  watch,  all 
his  money,  and  the  gold  links  which  Sir  Gilbert  had  given 
to  him.  The  policeman  supported  him  to  the  boarding- 
house,  and  put  him  to  bed,  but  held  out  no  hopes  of  cap- 
turing the  sandbaggers  or  recovering  the  loot.  A  ray  of 
light  illumined  the  darkness ;  the  Vicar's  cheque  still  lay 
in  the  Vicar's  letter  at  the  bottom  of  the  drawer  into  which 
Tim  had  thrust  it  before  he  took  the  road  to  the  Golden 
Gate  Park.  The  policeman  made  reasonably  sure  that  Tim 
was  not  much  the  worse  for  a  blow  with  a  stocking  filled 
with  sand,  and  then  took  his  leave,  promising  to  return  on 
the  morrow. 

"Yer  derby  hat  saved  you  from  concussion — see?" 

"Yes." 

That  was  a  bit  of  luck.  Before  rushing  out  of  the  Vicar- 
age, Tim  had  looked  for  a  cap  and  not  found  it.  He  re- 
membered jamming  on  his  billy-cock. 

Next  morning,  he  lay  in  bed  with  a  severe  headache,  the 
object  of  solicitude  on  the  part  of  his  landlady,  when  she 
learned  what  had  befallen  her  handsome  lodger.  Tim  told 
her  about  the  cheque,  which  may  have  warmed  the  cockles 
of  a  heart  beating  hard  to  earn  a  living. 

He  was  still  in  bed  when  Wynne  came  in,  almost  envious 
when  he  heard  of  the  misadventure.  Wynne  wanted  to 

135 


Timothy 


fetch  a  doctor,  but  Tim  assured  the  kind  fellow  that  he 
was  right  as  rain,  an  apt  simile  in  a  land  of  dry  seasons. 
Wynne  sat  down,  glancing  nervously  at  his  old  school- 
fellow. 

"I  say,"  he  began  awkwardly,  "I  wish  you'd  confide  in 
me.  A  nailing  good  sort  like  you  doesn't  ship  before  the 
mast  for  nothing." 

Tim  said  evasively : 

"You're  a  nailing  good  sort,  Wynne,  and  the  others, 
your  pals,  are  like  you." 

"How  queerly  you  say  that!" 

"Do  I?"  He  looked  keenly  at  Wynne.  "What  do  you 
call  a  nailing  good  sort?" 

Wynne  laughed. 

"I'm  serious.  Try  to  answer  the  question.  I've  a  rea- 
son for  asking.  What,  in  your  opinion,  is  a  nailing  good 
sort?" 

"I'm  dashed  if  I  ever  thought  about  it." 

"Think  about  it  now." 

The  mental  effort  was  almost  too  much  for  Wynne.  He 
murmured  tentatively: 

"He  ought  to  be  keen  at  games  and  sport,  and — and 
straight." 

"What  do  you  mean  by — straight?" 

"Ypu  know.  Decently  clean  and — er — all  the  rest  of 
it." 

"Would  you  call  a  man  decently  clean  who  got  a  servant 
in  his  father's  house  into  trouble  and  then  bolted?" 

"Oh,  Lord !    Did  you  do  that?" 

Tim  nodded. 

"Fouled  your  own  nest?" 

The  familiar  expression,  often  heard  at  Eton,  thawed 
some  secrecies  and  reserves  of  youth.  Tim  said  hotly: 

"We  always  called  it  that,  didn't  we?  But  do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  did  it  deliberately?" 

"No." 

Tim  continued: 
136 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

"And  yet,  if  I  had  sneaked  up  to  town  and  taken  the 
usual  broad  and  easy  way,  that  would  have  been  deliberate 
sin ;  and  then  Little  Pennington  would  have  asked  no  ques- 
tions. My  greatest  offence  was  disturbing  their  holy  peace. 
I  feel  it  in  all  my  bones." 

Then  he  told  his  story,  got  it  "off  his  chest,"  as  he  put 
it,  a  mighty  relief.  From  your  knowledge  of  the  boy,  you 
ought  to  divine  that  he  used  no  special  plea,  attempted  no 
extenuations.  Perhaps  Wynne  supplied  these.  Tim  spoke, 
too,  of  the  Vicar's  misery  and  horror,  suppressing,  of 
course,  the  truth  about  the  saint's  marriage.  He  concluded 
mournfully : 

"I  am  wretched,  because  I  made  him  wretched;  I  grow 
hot  with  shame  when  I  think  of  Ivy's  shame,  which  I  cannot 
take  away  or  lessen,  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  feel  about  the 
accursed  affair  as  I  did  about  being  sacked  from  Eton.  I 
have  not  been  worse  than  thousands  of  other  fellows,  only 
more  unlucky.  Now  you  have  it." 

"What  a  beastly  mess!"  groaned  Wynne.  "Knocked 
bang  out  of  the  India  Civil!  Oh,  damn  it!" 

"Yes — damn  it !    There  doesn't  seem  much  else  to  say." 

The  policeman  interrupted  this  confidential  talk.  He 
made  a  few  notes  in  a  greasy  pocketbook. 

"Accordin'  to  Hoyle,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "we  shan't 
never  cop  'em.  You  was  mighty  green  to  go  a-saunterin' 
down  that  thar  alley  alone  after  midnight." 

"I'm  one  of  the  green  things  of  this  earth,"  said  Tim; 
"and  I  can  bless  and  magnify  the  Lord  that  you  found 
me  and  looked  after  me.  Wynne,  the  Labourer  is  worthy 
of  more  than  his  hire." 

He  winked  at  Wynne,  who  responded.  The  policeman 
vanished,  smiling  blandly.  Wynne  said  hastily: 

"Look  here,  let  me  help  you  with — with  money.  I've 
lots.  And  you're  cleaned  out,  aren't  you?" 

"I  have  a  cheque,  but  I'd  like  to  send  it  back.  No,  no, 
I  can't  take  money  from  you." 

137 


Timothy 

"I  simply  insist.    What  rot!" 

Tim  shut  his  eyes  and  considered.  Wynne  murmured 
persuasively : 

"Please !" 

"What  did  you  give  that  policeman?" 

"Five  dollars!" 

"No  wonder  he  smiled !  Wynne,  old  man,  you're  a  trump, 
and  I'll  take  twenty  pounds  off  you,  if  you  can  spare  it, 
and  return  it,  too.  That  I  swear."  Tim  sat  up  in  bed, 
speaking  more  excitedly.  "I've  not  much  left  but  pride. 
And  this  will  drive  me  to  work;  work  is  what  I  want." 

"You  can  have  more  than  that,  Tim.  I  can  spare  it 
easily." 

"No ;  ten  might  do,  but  I  don't  want  the  horror  of  being 
penniless  hanging  over  me.  Odd  thing  your  turning  up  in 
the  nick  of  time!  Often  I  think  that  we're  just  leaves 
tossed  about  by  the  winds,  and  then  an  affair  like  this 
forces  me  to  dream  again  of  guardian  angels  and  all  that. 
Don't  tell  him,  but  Keppel  was  a  sort  of  guardian  angel 
last  night.  Say  good-bye  to  'em  for  me." 

"But  you'll  dine  with  us  to-night?" 

"Don't  tempt  me!  Being  with  you  fellows  and  hearing 
the  old  talk  tries  me  too  high.  Leave  your  address  with 
the  money." 

"Right.  I  advise  you  to  lie  snug  in  bed.  Sleep  off  that 
knock." 

"Not  much." 

'He  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  stood  upright,  squaring  his 
great  shoulders,  expanding  his  chest.  He  was  wearing  a 
skin-tight  jersey.  Wynne  opened  wide  his  eyes. 

"You  are  a — corker.  Built  from  the  ground  up,  the 
perfect  man,  what?" 

Tim  laughed  scornfully.     Presently  Wynne  went  away. 
Years  passed  before  they  met  again.    But,  after  the  young 
men  had  sailed  for  Japan,  a  portmanteau  arrived  at  Tim's 
lodgings  with  a  note — 
138 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

"DEAR  OLD  MAN, 

"Don't  be  too  proud  to  accept  what  we  send.     You 
bolted  without  clothes,  and   we  have  too  many.     Our 
excess  charges  would  make  you  fairly  sit  up ! 
"Carry  a  stiff  tail,  Tim.    The  luck  will  turn. 

"Yours  ever, 

"W." 

The  portmanteau  contained  a  complete  kit.  Tim  dropped 
some  tears,  as  he  unpacked  these  sweet-smelling  oblations 
with  the  scent  of  heather  upon  the  homespun.  And  the 
kindly  gift  imposed  more  than  mere  acceptance.  The  tag, 
noblesse  oblige,  is  pinned,  sometimes,  to  an  old  dress  coat. 
Excess  charges  had  not  been  altogether  wasted  upon  the 
garments  which  Wynne  and  Co.  left  behind  in  California. 


That  afternoon,  Tim  slipped  on  his  foc'sle  duds,  and 
went  down  to  the  water-front  to  hunt  work.  He  was  not 
long  in  finding  it,  for  muscle  was  at  a  premium  in  those 
days.  He  engaged  himself  to  help  unload  a  timber  schooner 
from  Mendocino  County.  The  boss  who  hired  him  for  the 
next  day  said  curtly : 

"Buy  a  pair  of  leather  gloves." 

Tim  held  out  his  hands. 

"Do  I  need  'em?" 

"You  bet." 

After  that,  he  hung  about  the  wharves,  eyeing  critically 
the  various  craft,  queer-looking  schooners  from  the  South 
Sea  Islands,  smelling  villainously,  coast  tramps,  fishing 
smacks,  and  half  a  dozen  yachts  of  small  tonnage.  His 
headache  passed ;  he  wished  that  he  was  at  work,  earning 
big  fat  dollars  wherewith  to  pay  back  Wynne.  Then  he 
sauntered  past  the  saloons,  watching  some  of  the  men  who 
reeled  in  and  out  of  them.  One  big  fellow  staggered  across 

139 


Timothy 

the  road,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Tim  recognised 
Nazro,  who,  in  his  turn,  hailed  Tim  boisterously : 

"Have  one  with  me,  sonny?"  He  jerked  his  thumb  in 
the  direction  of  a  saloon.  Tim  declined.  Nazro  swore 
prodigiously,  ending  up: 

"You'll  drink  with  me,  you  young  swine,  or  fight." 

"Then  I'll  fight,  old  man." 

Nazro  changed  the  tune : 

"That  all's  hunky,  Tim;  I  was  pullin'  yer  leg,  see?  I'm 
drunk  and  proud  of  it !  The  rest  o'  the  boys  are  lyin'  par- 
alysed in  Shaughnessy's  back  parlour.  I've  drunk  'em  stiff, 
by  thunder !  I'm  the  King,  I  am." 

"No  monarch,  I  hope,  was  ever  so  tight  as  you  are, 
Nazro." 

He  passed  on,  pursued  by  a  volley  of  bad  language. 


in 

Tim  never  forgot  the  three  days  that  followed.  Every 
muscle  in  his  magnificent  young  body  was  strained  terribly, 
handling  the  big  six-by-fours.  Two  men  in  the  gang 
chucked  work  at  mid-day.  Tim  blessed  the  boss  for  his 
timely  advice.  Even  with  gloves  his  hands  were  torn  and 
bruised.  And  yet,  as  he  sweated  and  toiled,  his  soul  sang 
within  him,  for  he  was  driving  out  the  devils  who  counselled 
him  to  spend  Wynne's  money  and  the  Vicar's  cheque  in  one 
tremendous  spree.  Let  those  who  have  passed  through 
this  ordeal  testify  to  the  temptation!  Lest  he  might  yield 
to  it  on  the  morrow,  when  his  limbs  would  be  stiff  and 
tormented,  he  wrote  that  night  to  the  Vicar,  sending  back 
the  cheque.  When  it  was  posted,  he  felt  almost  happy. 

"I  shall  come  home,"  he  wrote,  "when  I  have  made  good. 
Meanwhile,  I  shall  work  at  anything  that  turns  up.  I  want 
to  find  myself,  and  your  letter  has  helped  me  to  set  about 
the  job.  I  was  never  so  well  in  all  my  life,  although  I 
was  sandbagged  last  night.  They  talk  of  knocking  sense 
140 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

into  a  man's  head.  The  sandbaggers  knocked  sense  into 
mine.  Your  loving  son,  Tim." 

After  three  days'  labour,  he  rested,  wandering  about  the 
city,  absorbing  items  of  interest  to  himself.  In  Montgomery 
Street  he  found  a  real-estate  office,  with  a  show  window 
filled  with  gigantic  vegetables :  enormous  pumpkins,  colossal 
cabbages  and  onions.  These  astounding  products  of  the 
Golden  State  came,  so  he  was  informed,  from  a  valley  in 
San  Lorenzo  county,  which  lies  some  two  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  to  the  south  of  the  metropolis,  and  may  be 
reached  by  rail  now,  by  water  then.  Tim,  after  flattening 
his  nose  against  the  big  plate  glass  window,  walked  into 
the  office,  and  listened  eagerly  to  a  voluble,  red-faced  agent, 
who  talked  as  if  his  mouth  were  filled  with  too  ripe  fruit. 
His  patter  amused  and  edified  Tim. 

"You're  a  Britisher.  Well,  sir,  I'm  glad  to  make  your 
acquaintance.  You've  struck  us  at  the  psychological  mo- 
ment. Things  are  booming,  and  real  estate  up  and  down  the 
coast  is  advancing  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Any  information 
or  service  required  will  be  promptly  extended  to  you. 
Ain't  them  pumpkins  immense  ?  Never  struck  a  better 
'ad.'  Yes,  sir,  I'm  glad  of  this  opportunity  of  clasping 
you  by  the  hand.  I'd  love  to  make  you  acquainted  with 
the  romance  of  our  history,  the  salubrity  of  our  climate,  the 
vastness  of  our  resources,  and  the  beauty  and  grandeur 
of  our  scenery.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  to  recover  his  breath.     Tim  said  soberly: 

"Yes;  California  seems  to  be  a  nice  little  place.  If  it  is 
all  you  crack  it  up  to  be,  I  shall  buy  it." 

The  red- faced  agent  laughed,  expressing  a  willingness  to 
"set  'em  up."  But  he  went  on  talking. 

Tim  escaped  after  half  an  hour,  saturated  with  informa- 
tion, and  pockets  stuffed  with  "printed  matter."  In  his 
room  at  the  boarding-house  he  read  the  pamphlets.  For- 
tunes were  to  be  made  anywhere  and  everywhere.  Poultry- 
keeping,  bee-keeping,  horticulture,  viticulture,  agriculture, 

141 


Timothy 

horse-,  cattle-,  and  hog-raising  were  indicated  as  so  many 
broad  avenues  to  Fortune. 

Tim's  vivid  imagination  dealt  faithfully  with  the  "facts," 
facts  culled  from  prominent  citizens,  male  and  female.  One 
white  Aylesbury  duck,  the  property  of  Mrs.  Caroline  P. 
Biitzberger,  had  laid  one  hundred  eggs  in  one  season,  which 
had  duly  matured  into  ninety-seven  ducklings,  sold  when 
six  weeks  old  for  ninety-seven  dollars,  less  freight,  in  the 
San  Francisco  market !  Michael  McMurphy,  from  one  acre 
of  land,  for  which  he  had  paid  five  dollars,  harvested  a  net 
profit  of  one  hundred  dollars,  raising  Early  Rose  potatoes. 
Miss  Lauretta  Gump  had  made  a  small  fortune  out  of  roses. 

Tim  sucked  it  all  in,  a  baby  at  the  breasts  of  teeming 
Nature. 

rv 

Green  he  was ;  and  the  verdancy  within  sought  verdancies 
without:  green  grass,  green  trees,  green  wheat  and  corn. 
The  captious  may  ask  why  this  young  man  preferred  to 
work  with  his  hands  instead  of  putting  to  service  brains 
deemed  bright  enough  to  satisfy  the  Civil  Service  Commis- 
sioners. But,  at  the  moment,  muscle  commanded  a  better 
wage.  Tim  could  earn  three  dollars  a  day  with  his  hands. 
A  reporter  in  the  boarding-house,  a  clever  young  man, 
with  a  knowledge  of  a  special  business,  earned  ten  dollars 
a  week.  A  clerk  in  a  bank  or  a  counting-house,  if  he  were 
competent,  might  draw  a  salary  of  a  hundred  dollars  a 
month,  and  could  save  nothing  out  of  it.  Tim  had  the 
salt  of  the  high  seas  still  in  his  blood ;  he  wanted  sunshine 
and  rain,  roaring  winds  and  soft  zephyrs,  the  pulsing  life 
out  of  doors,  with  its  adventures  and  misadventures. 

For  a  month  he  worked  hard  on  and  about  the  water- 
front, saving  money,  living  simply,  finding  sufficient  enter- 
tainment and  instruction  in  studying  men  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact.  At  night,  he  would  don  Jocelyn's  blue 
serge  suit,  and  go  to  the  big  saloon  where  he  got  a  drink  for 
142 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

twenty-five  cents,  and  a  capital  supper  for  nothing.  One 
of  the  bar-tenders  was  an  Englishman,  a  some-time  gentle- 
man, late  of  the  Broken  Brigade,  who  knew  the  slope  from 
San  Diego  to  Seattle.  Tim  asked  him: 

"Ought  I  to  sponge  a  meal  here  regularly?" 

The  mixer  of  many  drinks  replied  promptly : 

"The  chuck  is  there,  good  stuff,  too.  Ground  bait,  of 
course,  for  thirsty  fish.  You  take  your  whack  at  it." 

He  talked  with  his  landlady,  the  widow  of  a  "rustler"  and 
a  "rustler"  herself.  She  kept  a  motherly  eye  on  Tim  with- 
out his  suspecting  it,  preaching  the  gospel  of  work.  From 
her  lips  he  heard  the  ancient  wheeze :  "The  gentlemen  of 
leisure  out  here  are  called  tramps." 

Tim  grinned.  He  had  a  kindly  feeling  for  tramps.  He 
could  understand  a  man  slipping  his  fetters,  escaping  from 
the  bondage  of  labour  into  the  vagabondage  of  the  road, 
wandering  on  and  on,  obedient  only  to  Fancy. 

Finally,  he  worked  his  way  south  to  San  Lorenzo  by 
sea.  The  old  mission  town  was  still  distinctively  Spanish 
in  appearance,  but  the  Spanish-Californians,  that  pleasure- 
loving  race,  were  being  driven  from  the  big  ranches.  Tim 
wandered  into  the  local  real-estate  office,  where  a  burly 
agent  mistook  him  for  a  man  of  means,  with  capital  to 
invest.  When  he  learned  the  truth,  he  counselled  Tim  to 
visit  a  fellow-countryman  who  was  clearing  a,  tract  of  land 
with  a  view  to  planting  out  vines  and  fruit  trees.  Tim  de- 
cided to  take  this  advice. 

April  had  come  to  California.  The  Spring  in  Tim  leapt 
up  joyously  to  meet  the  Spring  of  the  year.  During  these 
early  days,  Daffy  ruled  his  thoughts  concerning  women. 
He  looked  up  to  her  once  more  as  his  star,  now  immensely 
remote,  shining  upon  him  with  clear  cold  beam.  "I  must 
win  up  to  Daffy,"  he  told  himself,  "but  how — how?" 

The  mercury  within  him  rose  and  fell  intermittently. 


143 


Timothy 


He  passed  several  months  working  for  the  Englishman 
who  was  clearing  cheap  land.  This  middle-aged  tenderfoot 
had  a  wife  and  two  sons.  They  were  a  cheery  family,  and 
Tim  soon  loved  them,  entering  with  ardour  into  their  am- 
bitions, which  included  a  return  to  England  within  the  near 
future.  The  father,  Harvey  Cooke,  was  an  impassioned  op- 
timist with  weak  lungs.  He  had  come  to  Southern  Califor- 
nia for  the  climate,  bringing  with  him  what  he  could  scrape 
together,  a  few  thousand  pounds.  He  was  clever,  worldly- 
wise,  and  full  of  resource,  but  helplessly  ignorant  of  farm- 
ing, at  the  mercy  of  neighbours  and  foreman,  who  robbed 
him  mercilessly.  Nevertheless,  like  everybody  else,  he  was 
prospering.  His  land  had  trebled  in  value;  his  health  had 
been  restored.  He  planted  the  wrong  trees  in  the  wrong 
soil,  "botched"  everything  he  touched;  and  then  laughed 
gaily  at  his  blunders. 

"God  made  the  land,  but  the  Devil  sent  the  Cookes." 

"And  others,"  said  Tim. 

He  enjoyed  himself  vastly  well,  becoming  a  Jack-of-all- 
trades,  carpenter,  painter,  paper-hanger,  plough-boy,  cow- 
boy, and  horticulturist. 

Holidays  were  frequent  as  the  feasts  in  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic calendar.  Quail  swarmed  in  the  brush  hills ;  the 
marshes  by  the  sea  held  snipe  and  duck  innumerable;  in 
the  sand,  at  low  tide,  clams  could  be  dug,  and  transformed 
into  toothsome  chowder. 

Why  not  become  a  market-hunter  on  a  colossal  scale? 
Harvey  Cooke  proved  himself  a  true  prophet. 

"Market-hunting  will  be  knocked  on  the  head,  or  else 
the  game  will  be  wiped  out." 

Tim  wrote  to  the  Vicar,  and  received  letters  from  him. 
In  due  time  he  learned  that  Ivy  was  a  mother.  Tim  lay 
awake  thinking  of  the  baby,  unable  to  measure  his  half- 
interest  in  the  atom,  unable  to  assume  paternal  responsibili- 
144 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

ties,  and  yet  queerly  sensible  of  tiny  hands  clutching  at  his 
heart  and  eyes — were  they  brown  or  blue — mutely  gazing 
into  his  eyes,  full  of  helpless  interrogation.  Ought  he  to 
write  to  Ivy?  And  if  he  did,  what  could  he  say? 

In  many  ways  you  must  think  of  him  as  older  than  his 
years.  He  looked  a  man,  and  stroked  a  small  silky  mous- 
tache. He  spoke  as  a  man,  having  an  inherited  gift  of  the 
gab.  He  felt  as  a  man,  when  he  talked  with  women;  and 
the  daughters  of  the  Golden  West  made  it  plain  that  they 
liked  to  talk  with  him. 


VI 

He  returned  Wynne's  loan,  joyously  uplifted  at  doing  so. 

Suddenly,  he  found  himself  once  more  foot-loose,  with 
the  wide  world  before  him.  Cooke  sold  his  ranch  and  left 
San  Lorenzo  county.  He  spoke  to  Tim  of  buying  or 
building  a  hotel,  to  be  run  upon  solidly  English  lines. 

Then  he  and  his  vanished,  as  people  do  in  a  new  coun- 
try, to  pop  up  again  with  startling  unexpectedness. 

Tim  wandered  on  to  the  bunch-grass  ranges,  and  became 
a  cow-boy.  With  the  chappareros,  he  assumed  the  manners 
and  speech  of  the  young  vaquero,  turning  up  his  pantaloons 
over  high  heeled  boots,  wearing  a  white  silk  neckerchief,  and 
a  vast  sombrero,  a  bit  of  a  buck  as  all  broncho-busters 
should  be. 

The  life  was  hard,  tough  as  the  hondo  of  Tim's  lariat,  the 
rawhide  rope  which  hung  at  the  horn  of  his  big,  deep- 
seated  saddle.  He  learned  to  make  a  lariat  out  of  a  steer's 
hide,  and  to  throw  it  accurately.  Each  morning  he  rode 
into  the  brown  foothills. 

At  mid-day  he  returned  to  the  ranch  house,  to  devour  as 
swiftly  as  possible  beans  and  bacon,  and  a  big  chunk  of 
apple  or  pumpkin  pie,  with  a  lump  of  cheese  on  the  same 
plate  as  the  pie,  and  three  cups  of  coarse  tea  diluted  with 
tinned  milk  and  sweetened  with  cheap  sugar.  After  smok- 
ing a  couple  of  cigarettes  he  would  fare  forth  again  upon 

145 


Timothy 

a  fresh  horse.  He  was  on  a  big  unfenced  range ;  and  certain 
cattle  were  his  peculiar  care.  He  came  to  know  them  and 
their  habits  intimately.  And  he  learned  in  time  to  sit  a 
bucking  horse,  and  brand  a  wild  steer  single-handed.  Such 
arts  interested  him  for  a  season,  but  the  life  was  deadly 
dull.  Twice  a  year  the  spring  and  fall  rodeos  (round-ups) 
varied  the  monotony.  Cattlemen  and  cattle  dealers  as- 
sembled together,  outvying  each  other  at  a  bargain.  The 
fat  steers  were  cut  out ;  the  calves  branded,  and  the  festival 
ended  with  a  big  barbecue  and  feats  of  horsemanship. 

Every  two  months,  regularly,  the  "boys"  would  "strike" 
town,  and  a  "bust"  followed.  Few  cowboys  save  money. 
The  real  right  thing,  so  Tim  discovered,  was  to  hand  over 
your  "wad"  to  the  bar-keeper  of  a  saloon,  with  the  injunc- 
tion: "Say,  you  keep  that,  and  lemme  know  when  it's 
gone."  It  went  very  soon.  Strangers  were  invited  to  step 
up  to  the  bar  and  drink ;  a  good  deal  of  glass  was  broken, 
and,  occasionally,  a  head  or  two.  Now  and  again  there 
might  be  some  shooting,  and  the  comment,  if  such  an  affair 
ended  seriously,  was : 

"It  don't  pay  to  fool  with  Pete,"  or  words  to  that  effect. 
Pete,  in  such  cases,  escaped  scot  free,  if  he  could  shew  that 
his  antagonist  was  "heeled." 

Upon  one  of  these  occasions,  Tim  furnished  an  object 
lesson  in  personal  violence,  which  established  his  reputation 
on  the  ranges  as  a  strong  man.  Two  cowboys,  stout  healthy 
fellows,  were  hammering  each  other  in  a  saloon.  Tim  was 
called  upon  to  separate  them.  He  took  each  man  by  the 
collar,  wrenched  them  apart,  brought  their  two  heads  to- 
gether with  a  crash,  and  whirled  them  asunder  again.  Each 
man  reeled  back  against  the  nearest  wall,  and  fell  stunned. 
They  admitted  cheerfully,  when  they  recovered  conscious- 
ness, that  the  drinks  were  "on  them."  Nobody  was  more 
surprised  than  Tim  himself. 

As  a  rule,  like  most  very  powerful  men,  he  kept  out  of 
these  fights,  but  he  still  cherished  the  conviction  that  it 
was  his  duty,  as  an  Englishman,  to  strike  any  man,  drunk 
146 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

or  sober,  who  called  him  names.  The  foreman  of  the  ranch 
let  fall  a  word  of  advice  which  Tim  ignored  or  forgot — 

"It's  like  this,  Tim.  If  a  drunken  galoot  calls  you  a 
liar  it  don't  make  you  one,  does  it?" 

"I  allow  no  man  to  call  me  a  liar." 

"Go  easy,  you  tenderfoot,  you !  Do  you  want  to  kill  the 
man  as  calls  you  names?" 

"Hardly." 

"Wai,  you  mark  this.  If  you  strike  a  feller  in  this 
yere  country,  and  he's  heeled  or  carries  a  knife,  he'll  try  to 
kill  you,  and,  by  Gum!  you  may  have  to  choose  between 
killing  him,  or  being  killed.  That's  all." 

It  was  sound  advice,  kindly  offered.  About  a  year  after- 
wards Tim  was  imbibing  bad  whiskey  with  some  cowboys 
from  a  Spanish  grant ;  two  of  them  were  greasers.  One  of 
the  latter  addressed  Tim  savagely,  using  a  term  never  men- 
tioned by  the  men  of  the  West  without,  as  Owen  Wister 
says,  an  accompanying  smile.  The  greaser  did  not  smile. 
Tim  knocked  him  down.  The  man  got  up,  approached  Tim, 
and  slipped  a  knife  into  him. 

Tim  was  carried  to  the  County  Hospital,  which  served, 
also,  as  a  poor-house,  where  he  came  within  an  ace  of  giv- 
ing up  the  ghost.  Loss  of  blood  had  made  him  unconscious. 
He  drifted  back  to  consciousness  to  find  himself  in  a  cool, 
white-washed  room,  containing  half  a  dozen  beds.  A 
woman  was  bending  over  him,  saying: 

"Now,  you  keep  quiet.  You've  been  badly  hurt.  Lie 
still.  Let  me  do  the  talking." 

She  told  him  where  he  was,  and  that  he  might  reckon 
upon  being  carefully  tended.  Tim's  eyes  wandered  round 
the  room.  One  of  the  beds  just  opposite  to  his  was 
screened.  He  asked  dazedly : 

"Why  don't  I  have  a  nice  cute  little  screen?" 

The  nurse  said  indiscreetly : 

"You're  not  bad  enough  for  that." 

Tom's  wits  quickened. 

"I  see.    We're  allowed  to  die  in  private?" 

147 


Timothy 

The  nurse  nodded,  with  a  finger  on  her  lip,  enjoining 
silence.  Tim  moved.  And  then  the  room  became  dim,  and 
the  face  of  the  nurse  melted  into  the  shadows.  When  he 
returned  to  earth  again,  screens  were  round  his  bed! 

The  fact  smote  him.  So — he  was  condemned,  was  he? 
Toes  tucked  up !  Golden  slippers  all  ready !  Not  much ! 
He'd  fool  the  whole  silly  crowd — and  live. 

Possibly  this  tremendous  determination  not  to  leave  a 
jolly  world  kept  him  in  it  after  two  doctors  had  declared 
emphatically  that  he  must  go.  He  mended  slowly  from 
that  hour. 

During  convalescence,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  man 
past  middle  life  whom  we  will  call  the  Sage,  a  name  Tim 
found  for  him.  The  boy  thought  of  him  as  the  Sage,  or 
the  Ancient.  He  was  incurably  ill,  but  able  to  talk.  Tim 
was  amazed  at  the  quality  of  his  talk,  till  it  leaked  out  that 
the  Sage  had  been  a  fellow  of  his  College.  Why  had  he 
gone  under,  this  man  of  many  and  brilliant  parts?  Why 
was  he  lying  derelict  in  the  county  hospital  of  San  Lorenzo. 
Tim  never  knew. 

We  record  some  of  the  Sage's  babblings.  They  were 
hardly  more  than  that.  He  was  old  and  very  tired.  Tim 
told  him  part  of  his  story. 

"Yes ;  yes ;  made  a  fool  of  yourself  with  a  rag  and  a 
bone  and  a  hank  of  hair.  Who  wrote  that?  I  read  it 
somewhere  lately,  the  words  of  a  boy  who  was  born  a 
man." 

"Never  heard  'em,"  said  Tim,  for  Kipling  had  not  yet 
swum  into  his  ken. 

"I  forget  names.  I  lie  here  thinking  of  abstractions,  my 
own  experiences  mostly,  whether  good  or  evil.  Made  a  fool 
of  yourself,  did  you?" 

"Foolishness?"  asked  Tim  grimly.  "Little  Pennington 
called  it  by  another  name." 

"I  daresay.  Vice  is  often  folly,  although  folly  is  not 
often  vice.  Good  and  evil,"  he  sighed  drearily;  "they  are 
so  relative,  aren't  they?  So  dependent  upon  time  and 
148 


Poppies  and  Mandragora 

place  and  temperament.  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  tether, 
boy,  and  it  has  been  a  long  one.  I'm  ready  for  the  last 
adventure." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  fell  asleep. 

Later,  Tim  spoke  of  San  Francisco.  Perhaps  he  ought 
to  have  sought  work  there,  brain-work.  The  Sage  shook 
his  head: 

"All  great  cities  are  sad,  boy.  Pleasure  sparkles  on  the 
surface,  spume  of  the  deep  sea !  and  catches  the  eyes  of 
fools.  For  joy  you  must  go  to  the  country,  to  the  wild 
places,  the  mountains  and  forests.  I  trapped  in  the  woods 
of  the  north;  I  was  quite  alone  during  a  blessed  winter. 
I  was  happy;  I  loved  it." 

And  again : 

"Suffer   and   grow   strong." 

But  if  suffering  imposed  weakness?  Tim  thought  of 
Preble  relaxing  his  grip ! 

The  Sage  was  thinking  when  he  spoke  to  Tim  of  death : 

"It  generally  is,  and  ought  to  be  easy,  if  a  man  has  lived 
his  life.  I  was  present  once  at  the  deathbed  of  a  friend 
who  was  esteemed  a  shining  example.  He  remained  all 
his  years  in  a  tiny  circle,  a  celibate  from  choice.  He  drew 
down  the  blinds  between  himself  and  everything  that  of- 
fended a  curiously  fastidious  and  refined  mind.  His  end 
was  unhappy.  He  told  me,  towards  the  last,  that  he  re- 
garded himself  as  a  vegetable,  a  weed  upon  Lethe's  wharf. 
It  really  worried  him  that  his  life  had  been  so  admirably 
correct.  He  went  reluctantly.  Somehow  peace  at  the 
end  fled  from  him." 

Next  day,  the  Sage  died. 

But  he  had  lived.  Tim  knew  that,  and  became  rilled 
with  a  curiosity  that  was  never  slaked. 

"Et  propter  vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas !" 

Juvenal's  tag  came  into  his  mind.  To  remain  all  one's 
life  in  cotton  wool,  in  a  snug  partition,  like  a  blown  Great 
Auk's  egg  with  never  a  crack  in  it,  to  be  looked  at,  per- 
haps, as  a  rare  specimen  of  virtue  never  put  to  the  proof, 

149 


Timothy 

to  be  labelled,  classified,  reduced  to  a  common  order,  to  be 
spoken  of  with  hushed,  reverential  whispers  as  a  "museum 
specimen,"  was  this  life? 

On  leaving  the  hospital,  he  found  himself  weak  as  an 
anaemic  girl  and  almost  penniless.  Incidentally,  his  place 
on  the  range  had  been  filled  up. 

"I  shall  tramp  it  a  bit,"  thought  Tim.  Before  leaving 
San  Lorenzo,  he  overhauled  his  portmanteau,  shelved  in  a 
small  hotel  kept  by  a  Frenchman.  The  moth  had  ravaged 
Jocelyn's  blue  serge  suit,  cut  by  a  famous  snip.  Tim 
pondered  the  obvious  moral : 

"Has  the  moth  got  into  me?" 

He  bought  a  light  pair  of  blankets,  and  made  them  up 
into  a  loop,  through  which  he  put  his  head ;  the  upper  part 
rested  upon  his  left  shoulder,  and  the  lower  reached  to 
his  right  hip.  Carrying  a  small  valise,  he  took  the  road. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AGUA   CALIENTE 


WANDERING  south  through  Santa  Barbara  and  Los 
Angeles  counties,  Tim  supported  himself  fairly  well 
by  doing  odd  jobs — splitting  stovewood,  haying  and  har- 
vesting, night-watching  in  a  big  hotel,  that  dreariest  of 
vigils,  working  on  a  "gravel  train"  (ballasting  a  railroad 
track),  picking  up  few  dollars  but  much  experience.  His 
heels  became  abnormally  sore,  so  bad  at  last  that  he  had 
to  lie  up  in  a  small  country  inn.  Being  invited  to  inscribe 
his  name  in  the  hotel  register,  he  wrote: 

"W.  W.  Green." 

The  young  lady  in  charge  of  the  office  smiled.  The 
stranger  limped,  but  he  was  very  handsome. 

"Are  you  ashamed,"  she  asked,  "of  your  first  names 
that  you  don't  write  them  down?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!" 

"What  are  your  first  names?" 

"William  Weary.     What  are  yours?" 

She  laughed,  tossing  a  coquettish  head. 

"My  name  is  Gladys  A  dele  Fitch,  but  my  intimate  friends 
call  me  Dellie."  She  added  pleasantly:  "You  do  limp 
some,  but  you  don't  look  very  weary,  Mr.  Green." 

"Looks  are  deceptive,"  replied  Tim.  "You  don't  look 
very,  very  good,  Miss  Fitch,  but  I'm  sure  you  are." 

Obviously  she  was  flirtatious,  but  Tim  failed  to  respond 
after  a  promising  opening.  He  hated  to  be  pursued,  re- 
membering Ivy  and  her  beguiling:  "Oh,  I  do  like  you!" 
Many  women  had  looked  boldly  or  bashfully  into  his  eyes ; 


Timothy 

and  always  he  was  sensible  of  a  queer  revulsion,  partly  of 
the  flesh  and  partly  of  the  spirit.  Ivy  had  rolled  him  in 
the  dust.  There  were  many  Ivys  in  the  world.  He  en- 
countered them  everywhere.  Journey  predicted  that  they 
would  come  to  his  whistling;  but  they  came  without  it. 

At  this  inn  he  spent  what  was  left  of  his  money,  and, 
finally,  had  to  take  the  road  again  before  his  heels  were 
fit  for  tramping.  Hard  times  followed.  He  became  for 
a  season  a  hobo,  and  owed  much  to  the  kindness  and 
charity  of  a  professional  called  Ginger.  Ginger  was  what 
is  known  as  a  "poke  out."  He  belonged  to  the  great  ma- 
jority of  hoboes  who  accept,  neither  humbly  nor  grate- 
fully, cold  food  handed  out  at  the  back  door.  The  toffs 
of  the  profession  are  termed  "set-downers."  To  be  a  set- 
downer  exacts  great  gifts.  A  set-down  earns  by  his  wits 
three  solid  hot  meals  a  day. 

Ginger  was  a  tall,  thin,  lantern- jawed  fellow,  with  a 
merry  eye.  When  he  felt  in  good  spirits,  he  would  say  to 
Tim :  "Gosh !  pard,  I  kin  taste  meself  this  morning."  He 
was  sockless,  but  particular  about  his  appearance.  He 
carried  a  razor  and  a  clothes  brush,  which  served  also  as  a 
hair  brush,  and  he  wore  a  double  change,  two  coats,  two 
flannel  shirts  and  two  pairs  of  trousers. 

He  did  most  of  the  battering  (begging),  saying  genially: 
"Now,  pard,  what  would  you  fancy  this  morning?  Chicken 
a  la  Maryland  ?  Waffles  with  maple  syrup  ?  A  cut  o'  salm- 
on?" Then  he  would  shamble  off  to  return  presently 
with  some  cold  potatoes  and  broken  meat.  Tea  would  be 
boiled  up  in  an  old  tomato  can,  and  the  knights  of  the 
road  would  fall  to. 

Ginger  taught  Tim  how  to  beat  his  way  by  train  with- 
out being  beaten.  They  crawled  under  the  cars  and  lay 
snug  upon  the  "bumpers,"  the  trucks  which  carry  the 
wheels.  Tim  would  hang  on  desperately  with  both  hands, 
not  daring  to  let  go  whilst  the  gravel  and  dirt  pounded  his 
face.  The  dust  was  awful,  suffocating,  but  long  distances 
were  covered. 
152 


Agua  Caliente 

Tim,  of  course,  was  never  of  the  hobo  fraternity.  He 
preferred  to  work  for  a  meal  instead  of  battering  it,  much 
to  Ginger's  disgust.  Unhappily,  Tim  couldn't  work  for 
nearly  three  months.  His  health  had  failed.  If  he  at- 
tempted manual  labour  he  would  break  at  once  into  a 
profuse  perspiration,  followed  by  violent  sickness  and  a 
racking  headache. 

He  was  "on  his  uppers." 

Gradually  his  health  came  back.  Ginger  said  solemnly; 
"If  you  mean  to  work,  pard,  we  must  part." 

So  they  parted. 

Was  this  sad  experience  wasted?  Tim  had  learned  the 
adjustment  of  ways  to  means  and  means  to  ends,  the 
patter  of  the  road  fell  fluently  from  his  lips,  and  the  songs 
of  the  sockless. 

Had  he  sunk  or  risen?  Answer  that  question,  if  ye 
can,  ye  fledglings  in  cosy  nests  to  whom  grumbling  comes 
easier  than  song. 

Kindly  remember  that  he  had  not  yet  recovered  his 
strength.  The  greaser's  knife  had  bled  him  white,  but  not 
to  the  whiteness  of  the  happy  village.  His  ambitions  re- 
mained in  abeyance. 

Presently,  he  drifted  across  roughish  water  into  the 
placid,  pellucid  bay  of  Avalon.  He  became  for  a  summer's 
season,  a  beachcomber,  living  on  and  by  the  beach  in  a 
small  tent,  teaching  trippers  from  the  hot  valleys  beyond 
the  Coast  Range  how  to  swim,  and  fish,  and  pull  an  oar. 

In  Avalon  strength  and  high  health  became  his  again. 
And,  also,  the  desire  to  win  up  to  his  star,  to  snatch  her 
from  the  skies.  In  an  illustrated  weekly,  he  saw  a  picture, 
and  beneath  it:  "One  of  this  season's  fairest  debutantes" 
No  tears  came  to  his  eyes,  as  he  stared  yearningly  at  Daffy's 
beautiful  laughing  face,  at  the  deliciously  curved  lips  that 
he  had  kissed.  But  blood  seemed  to  be  dripping  out  of  his 
heart.  The  greaser's  blade  inflicted  pangs  less  poignant> 
for  the  sublime  and  ridiculous  meet  and  mingle  in  a  young 

153 


Timothy 

man's  heart,  and  tragedy  underlies  the  fact  that  youth  can- 
not distinguish  between  them. 

There  are  wild  goats  in  the  island  of  Catalina.  Tim  put 
up  a  sign  outside  his  tent: 

"Tim  Green  is  an  expert  goat-hunter,  and  a  dead  shot; 
but  it's  always  your  goat." 

Tourists  from  the  East  returned  home  with  trophies 
when  they  engaged  Tim. 

After  a  time  he  grew  bored  with  summer  seas  and 
glass-bottomed  boats,  through  which  folks  peered  at  the 
wonders  of  the  deep.  He  thought  to  himself:  "A  good 
gale  would  shake  them  and  me  up.  I  must  get  out  of 
this." 

When  the  trippers  returned  at  the  end  of  September 
to  their  malarious  valleys,  Tim  left  Avalon,  and  wandered 
back  to  Santa  Barbara  county.  He  had  saved  a  little 
money,  about  as  much  as  a  son  of  Dives  may  spend  on  an 
evening's  entertainment.  Tim  carried  his  cash  in  a  canvas 
belt  snug  upon  his  skin — insurance  against  starvation. 

During  that  winter — if  you  call  the  pleasantest  season  of 
the  Southern  California  year  by  so  harsh  a  name — he 
worked  for  a  Spaniard,  Don  Clodomiro  Maria  Arellanes, 
who  did  little  manual  work  himself,  being  content  to  sit 
beneath  a  fig  tree  and  meditate  upon  the  past,  when  he  and 
his  lived  patriarchally  to  the  sound  of  guitar  and  mando- 
lin, lords  of  the  earth  and  the  fullness  thereof,  owners 
of  countless  horses  and  cattle,  of  leagues  of  land  now  cut 
up  and  mutilated  by  barb-wire.  Arellanes  and  his  daugh- 
ter occupied  an  adobe,  the  last  of  many  possessions.  With 
the  adobe  went  a  few  acres  of  rich  valley,  and  a  creek 
gushing  generously  in  the  dryest  years.  There  was  also 
an  orchard,  and  a  sulphur  spring.  The  place  was  called 
Agua  Caliente.  At  the  back  of  this  small  paradise  stretched 
a  wilderness  of  chaparral  and  manzanita  to  which  Don 
Clodomiro  owned  no  title  save  that  of  possession,  a  title 
never  disputed  as  yet.  But,  at  the  time  when  Tim  engaged 
himself,  a  hungry  horde  of  squatters  was  invading  the 
154 


Agua  Caliente 

wilderness,  lured  on  by  the  reading  of  just  such  pamphlets 
as  had  captivated  Tim.  The  squatters,  poor  souls!  be- 
lieved that  these  brush  hills,  hitherto  the  sanctuary  of  the 
coyote  and  rattlesnake,  could  be  transformed  into  vine- 
yards and  orchards. 

They  came  in  thousands,  driving  horses  as  thin  and  hun- 
gry as  themselves,  with  bedraggled,  prolific  wives  sitting 
beside  them,  men  from  bleeding  Kansas  and  the  mid-West, 
blown  out  of  the  cornland  by  cyclone  and  blizzard,  soured 
fellows,  maimed  and  frost-bitten,  with  a  tiny  flame  alight 
in  their  chilled  souls,  the  hope  that  somewhere,  anywhere, 
they  might  find  a  homestead.  To  all  of  them,  Southern 
California  had  been  pictured  as  Canaan. 

Don  Clodomiro  swore  softly  in  Spanish  when  the  pil- 
grims began  to  take  up  claims  upon  the  rough  hills  which 
he  regarded  inalienably  as  his.  Argument  was  wasted  upon 
this  quiet,  courteous  gentleman.  The  hills  were  his  long 
before  Uncle  Sam  had  pinned  a  patent  to  them.  Had  not 
his  grandfather  obtained  a  grant  from  the  illustrious 
Gobernador  Alvarado,  the  boundaries  to  be  defined  by  a 
horseman  galloping  helter-skelter  from  one  peak  to  an- 
other? And  a  title  to  this  wilderness  might  have  been 
confirmed  by  Uncle  Sam,  had  the  "diseno"  been  submitted 
to  the  Commissioners  appointed  to  confirm  such  vague 
documents. 

Tim  developed  an  affection  for  both  father  and  daugh- 
ter. They  were  dear,  simple  gentlepeople,  in  spite  of 
poverty,  some  dirt,  and  an  amazing  ignorance.  Magdalena 
had  been  educated  in  a  convent;  returning  home  to  wash 
and  cook  and  sweep.  She  was  engaging  and  graceful  rather 
than  beautiful ;  but  her  eyes  were  lovely,  limpid  brown 
pools  with  golden  flecks  in  them,  as  if  tiny  sunbeams  had 
found  their  way  into  cool  shadows  and  there  remained. 
Don  Clodomiro  adored  her.  She  was  small,  delicately 
fashioned,  with  exquisite  hands  and  feet,  and  only  sixteen, 
when  Tim  came  to  Agua  Caliente. 

Tim  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  jolly  little  sister;  and 

155 


Timothy 

he  praised  her  cooking,  as  well  he  might,  for  she  concocted 
wonderful  Spanish  dishes,  savoury  guisados,  chiles  relle- 
nos  (stuffed  chiles),  tomales  and  enchiladas.  A  great  pot 
of  beans  always  stood  on  the  table,  and  in  an  outhouse 
hung  strings  of  sun-dried  venison,  a  sort  of  jerky,  and 
onions  and  red  peppers.  Magdalena,  also,  without  any 
special  knowledge,  seemed  to  have  a  gift  for  poultry-breed- 
ing. She  looked  charming  when  she  was  feeding  her 
ducklings  and  chickens  and  turkey  poults. 

Tim  became  very  Spanish.  He  learned  to  chatter  in 
that  language  as  fluently  as  Magdalena,  and  she  taught  him 
how  to  play  the  guitar,  and  to  sing  pathetic  love  songs. 
There  was  one  in  particular  with  a  haunting  refrain : 

"Adios,  adios,  para  siempre — adios !" 

Tim  never  heard  this  line  without  reflecting  that  it  was 
the  swan-song  of  the  Spanish-Calif ornians,  a  farewell  to 
the  wonderful  land  of  sunshine,  which  had  once  belonged 
to  them,  for  such  pleasure-loving  folk  were  vanishing,  even 
as  the  Indians  had  vanished,  slowly  fading  out  of  a  land- 
scape which  became  duller  and  more  drab  for  their  passing. 

He  learned  much  from  these  Latins,  contrasting  their 
patience,  good-humour,  and  happiness  in  simple  things 
with  the  nervous,  forceful,  overworked  Anglo-Saxons,  never 
satisfied  with  existing  conditions,  bowing  down  and  wor- 
shipping the  Moloch  of  Progress,  doffing  their  hats  to  the 
snorting,  smoke-belching  locomotive  as  the  symbol  of  a 
triumphant  civilisation.  From  the  porch  of  his  adobe, 
which  crowned  a  hill,  Don  Clodomiro  could  behold  the 
splendid  Jesus  Maria  rancho,  which  had  once  belonged  to 
him  and  his  fathers.  Now,  the  sweeping,  parklike  pastures 
were  dotted  with  hideous  frame  houses  and  huge  barns  ly- 
ing like  blots  upon  the  softly-tinted  foothills  upon  which 
his  cattle  and  horses  had  grazed. 

No  complaints  leaked  from  Don  Clodomiro's  lips,  when 
he  spoke  of  the  times  "before  the  Gringo  came,"  but  Tim 
divined  that  in  his  heart  smouldered  a  passionate  protest 
156 


Agua  Caliente 

and  resentment,  the  stronger  because  an  iron  pride  sup- 
pressed it. 

ii 

A  year  passed  swiftly  and  happily.  Tim's  wages  were 
not  paid  regularly  nor  in  full,  but  he  did  not  care,  for  he 
had  found  a  home,  and  everything  sensuous  and  artistic 
in  him  leapt  up  joyously  to  acclaim  peace  and  beauty  and 
rest. 

During  this  year  some  of  the  brush  hills  at  the  back  of 
Agua  Caliente  were  taken  up  by  squatters,  but  these  claims 
were  far  from  the  adobe,  and  it  seemed  probable  that  the 
squatters  would  desert  them  and  move  on.  Don  Clodomiro 
cursed  them  magnificently  as  he  rolled  his  cigarettes,  and 
remained  under  his  fig  tree.  Tim  urged  upon  him  a  mas- 
terly inactivity,  knowing  that  the  squatters  could  be  evicted 
not  by  law  nor  by  force,  but  by  Nature  herself. 

And  then,  the  inevitable  happened. 

A  prairie-schooner  rolled  up  to  Agua  Caliente  containing 
the  Bannons.  Bannon  was  a  rough  and  tough  Missourian, 
a  Piker  of  aggressive  type.  He  selected  a  claim  within 
Don  Clodomiro's  fence,  and  staked  it  out. 

"Teem,"  said  Don  Clodomiro,  "you  come  with  me.  I 
must  talk  to  this  dog.  Virgen  Santisima!  I  shall  say, 
Teem,  what  I  think,  and  you  will  be  my  weetness." 

"Bully  for  you,"  said  Tim.  "We'll  scare  the  liver  out  of 
him." 

They  went  together  to  the  barn,  and  saddled  up  two 
horses.  In  the  distance  Magdalena  was  flitting  about, 
feeding  her  chickens.  The  father  gazed  at  her  fondly; 
then  he  said  to  Tim : 

"My  Magdalena !  what  a  darling !  So  good,  so  pretty,  so 
loving,  Teem?" 

"All  that  and  more,"  replied  Tim. 

Don  Clodomiro  pulled  at  his  beard.  He  was  not  fifty  but 
his  beard  had  grizzled. 

157 


Timothy 

"Eef  there  should  be  trouble ?" 

"Yes?" 

"Eef,  Teem,  this  son  of  a  gun,  this  Bannon,  should  get 
the  drop  on  me ?" 

"Not  he." 

"My  boy,  I  speak  soberly.  I  have  seen !  Ay  de  mi! 

I  have  seen,  I  say,  good  men  of  my  race  shot  down  by 
the  Gringos,  who  are  quick,  ohe!  how  quick  they  are  to 
kill!  My  brother  Sebastian,  he  die  like  that  in  Monterey, 
and  my  cousin,  Estrada." 

"If  he  kills  you,  I'll  kill  him." 

"Teem,  you  are  a  good  Teem.  I  no  think  of  that.  I 
think  of  my  Magdalena,  mi  querida.  Look  you,  this  is  be- 
tween ourselves.  One  day  my  Magdalena  will  be  reech." 

"Rich?"  echoed  Tim. 

"The  Agua  Caliente  and  the  sulphur  spring  are  mine.  I 
have  United  States  patent.  In  that  hill  is  bitumen,  mi 
amigo,  and  somewhere  is  oil.  Always  I  have  known  that. 
And  so  I  have  held  tight  to  the  old  homestead,  because  one 
day  the  Gringos  will  build  a  monster  hotel  here.  Oh,  yes ! 
and  the  oil  will  flow,  my  Teem,  and  then  Magdalena  will  be 
reech — reech !" 

"By  Jingo !    I  hope  so." 

"Now,  Teem,  if  anything  happen  to  me,  it  is  for  you  to 
watch  out  for  my  darling.  You  are  strong  and  clever. 
Yes,  I  know.  You  will  watch  out  for  Magdalena,  eef  this 
Bannon  is  too  mooch  for  me?  Is  it  not  so?" 

Tim  grasped  his  hand. 

"By  God!"  he  said  solemnly,  "I  will." 

"That  is  all  right.  And  now  for  the  Sefior  Bannon. 
Dios!  May  he  feed  the  turkey  buzzards!" 

"They  wouldn't  touch  his  filthy  carcase,"  said  Tim. 

They  rode  down  the  hill,  following  a  small  creek,  till 
they  came  to  the  prairie-schooner  and  a  dirty  tent.  Upon 
the  tent  ropes  were  hanging  frayed  garments  which  flut- 
tered in  the  breeze.  A  woman  was  washing  out  other  gar- 
158 


Agua  Caliente 


ments  in  the  creek.     Don  Clodomiro  raised  his  sombrero 
and  saluted  her  courteously. 

"The  Seiior  Bannon?    Where  is  he,  senora?" 

The  senora  stared  defiantly  at  the  horsemen. 

"If  you  mean  Tom;  he's  asleep  in  the  wagon.  Call 
again !" 

"No.  I  regret  moch  that  I  disturb  the  senor.  Have  the 
kindness,  to  inform  the  senor  that  Don  Clodomiro  Arellanes 
desires  to  speak  with  heem." 

The  woman  rose  sullenly,  walked  to  the  tent  and  said 
shriljy:  "Tom,  here's  a  couple  o'  Dagos.  I  tole  'em  you 
was  asleep.  Git  up,  and  handle  'em  yerself." 

Arellanes  pulled  his  beard.  He  murmured  silkily  to 
Tim: 

"He,  he!    We  are  Dagos,  Teem.    You  hear  that?" 

Tim  was  brown  as  any  Spaniard.    He  replied  quickly : 

"If  you're  a  Dago,  Don  Clodomiro,  I'm  proud  to  be  one, 
too." 

The  Senor  Bannon  lurched  out  of  the  tent,  a  big,  raw- 
boned  ruffian,  half  full  of  whiskey. 

"You  are  the  Senor  Bannon?" 

"I'm  Tom  Bannon.    What  you  fellers  want?" 

He  eyed  them  both  with  savage  contempt.  Don  Clodo- 
miro answered  mildly: 

"You  have  cut  my  fence,  and  staked  out  a  claim  upon 
my  land." 

Bannon  laughed  harshly. 

"Yer  land?  That's  good.  That's  a  tale  ter  pitch  ter 
suckers.  It's  Uncle  Sam's  land — and  you  know  it.  If  ye 
don't  know  it,  the  county  surveyor'll  post  ye.  I  ain't  no 
tenderfoot,  old  whiskers,  see?  You  own  the  spring,  the 
adobe,  and  jest  three  hundred  an'  twenty  acres  o'  land,  the 
pick  o'  the  township,  too.  I'm  helpin'  myself  to  my  own. 
If  ye've  nothin'  else  ter  say — git !" 

"You  have  cut  my  fence,  senor." 

"I  hev.  I  mean  to  cut  more  of  it.  Quit  foolin',  onless 
yer  huntin'  trouble." 

159 


Timothy 

"I  say  this.    This  senor  here  is  my  weetness." 

"An'  my  wife  is  mine.    Come  right  here,  Mame." 

Mrs.  Bannon  abandoned  her  washing  reluctantly,  stand- 
ing with  arms  akimbo,  staring  at  the  horsemen,  listening 
attentively  with  a  sour  smile  upon  her  weather-beaten  face. 
Half  a  dozen  children,  playing  about  the  wagon,  made  up 
Don  Clodomiro's  audience.  He  spoke  very  quietly : 

"You  cut  my  fence  again,  Senor  Bannon,  and  I  shoot 
you,  in  my  own  way,  and  at  my  own  time.  I  build  my 
fence  myself,  with  my  own  hands.  It  ees  mine.  I  warn 
you  fair  and  square." 

"You  go  to  hell!" 

"Hasta  luego,"  said  the  Don,  raising  his  sombrero.  "I 
waste  no  more  words  with  you,  senor." 

He  rode  on,  followed  by  Tim. 


in 

Nothing  happened  for  several  days.  Afterwards,  when 
Tim  came  to  a  better  understanding  of  his  fellow-men,  he 
wondered  why  he  had  blundered  so  horribly  in  his  esti- 
mate of  Don  Clodomiro's  character  and  temperament.  At 
the  time  he  believed  the  quiet,  gentle  Spaniard  to  be  bluff- 
ing; and  he  believed,  also,  that  the  bluff  would  not  be 
called  by  such  a  stupid,  blustering  clown  as  Tom  Bannon 
appeared  to  be. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  Magdalena  left  home  to  spend  a 
few  days  in  Santa  Barbara.  An  old  Indita  took  her  place 
in  the  kitchen  and  corrals.  The  day  before  Magdalena  left 
home  the  wire  fence  was  cut  in  another  place,  but  Tim 
did  not  connect  the  two  incidents. 

Upon  the  afternoon  of  Magdalena's  departure,  Tim  was 
working  in  the  orchard,  when  he  heard  a  rifle  shot.  He 
went  into  the  house,  and  perceived  that  Don  Clodomiro's 
rifle,  a  heavy-barrelled  Sharp  of  ancient  pattern  was  miss- 
ing. Tim  became  uneasy.  His  uneasiness  increased  when 
160 


Agua  Caliente 

the  Spaniard  appeared  shortly  afterwards  carrying  the  rifle. 

"Any  luck?"  asked  Tim,  lightly. 

"I  shoot  a  coyote,  Teem." 

He  spoke  so  naturally  that  Tim's  fears  vanished.  The 
Spaniard  propped  the  rifle  against  an  apple  tree,  and  be- 
gan to  roll  a  cigarette.  Tim  saw  that  his  thin  brown  fingers 
were  trembling.  Presently  he  went  into  the  house,  carry- 
ing the  rifle  with  him.  Tim  worked  on  for  about  half  an 
hour ;  then  he  slipped  quietly  into  the  adobe,  and  examined 
the  rifle.  An  empty  case  still  lay  in  the  breech.  Tim 
glanced  about  him  furtively.  Don  Clodomiro  was  in  his 
bedroom.  Tim  slipped  the  empty  cartridge  into  his  pocket, 
and  then  cleaned  the  rifle.  He  went  back  to  his  work  as 
quietly  as  he  came  from  it,  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  mad 
excitement.  He  made  certain  that  Don  Clodomiro  had  sent 
Magdalena  away,  and  had  then  despatched  his  enemy. 

The  two  men  met  at  supper,  which  was  eaten  in  silence. 
Towards  the  end,  Arellanes  said  abruptly: 

"Teem,  you  like  Magdalena?" 

"Like  her?    You  bet." 

"It  ees  good." 

The  men  smoked,  whilst  the  Indita  cleared  away.  It 
might  have  been  eight  o'clock,  or  thereabouts,  when  heavy 
steps  were  heard  on  the  wooden  porch,  followed  by  a  loud 
knocking  on  the  door,  which  Don  Clodomiro  opened. 

"Hands  up — quick!" 

Tim  obeyed  the  familiar  injunction.  Arellanes  never 
moved,  smiling  derisively  at  his  visitors.  All  were  masked, 
wearing  masks  made  out  of  gunny-sacking. 

"He's  not  heeled,"  gasped  Tim.    "Don't  shoot!" 

"What  you  men  want?"  asked  Don  Clodomiro.  His 
voice  was  as  gentle  and  suave  as  ever. 

"We  want  you." 

"Dios!    And  why?" 

"Tie  their  hands,  boys." 

Arellanes  offered  no  resistance,  submitting  quietly.  Tim 

161 


Timothy 

submitted  also.  About  a  dozen  men  were  in  the  room. 
The  spokesman  said  curtly : 

"This  afternoon,  along  about  five,  Tom  Bannon  was  shot 
dead  in  his  tracks,  shot  jest  inside  yer  fence,"  he  turned 
his  masked  head  toward  Arellanes.  "You  murdered  him, 
you  damned  Dago !  In  the  presence  of  his  pore  wife,  and 
this  young  man,  who's  a  party  to  the  crime,  or  I'm  a  liar, 
you  threatened  ter  shoot  him  on  sight,  ef  he  cut  yer  fence." 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  tell  him  that." 

"He  did  cut  yer  fence  ter  git  to  his  own  land,  an'  to-day 
you  shot  him." 

"It  ees  to  be  proved  in  a  court  of  justice." 

"It's  going  to  be  proved  right  here — and  now.  Search 
him,  boys." 

They  did  so,  finding  nothing.  The  leader  picked  up  the 
rifle  and  opened  the  breech,  glancing  down  the  barrel. 

"It's  clean,"  he  said.  Involuntarily,  Arellanes  glanced  at 
Tim,  and  that  glance  was  a  confession.  Yes;  Arellanes 
had  shot  Bannon. 

"Search  the  young  feller!" 

Tim  was  searched.  One  of  the  searchers  held  up  the 
empty  cartridge. 

"Give  it  here,"  commanded  the  leader. 

He  slipped  the  discharged  cartridge  into  the  rifle.  Then 
he  smelt  the  end  of  the  barrel,  and  ran  the  tip  of  his  little 
finger  round  the  inside  edge  of  it. 

"Boys,  that  rifle  was  fired  within  a  few  hours ;  the  powder 
ain't  dry.  He  turned  savagely  to  Tim:  "Now,  look  ye 
here,  you  answer  straight!  What  was  this  yere  empty 
shell  doin'  in  yer  pocket?" 

Tim  lied  recklessly: 

"I  had  a  shot  at  a  coyote  this — this  morning.  Then  I 
cleaned  the  rifle,  and  I  suppose  I  slipped  that  shell  into  my 
pocket." 

"You  hit  the  coyote." 

"I— I  missed  it." 

"Thought  so.  If  you  could  ha'  shown  us  the  scalp  we 
162 


Agua  Caliente 

might  hev  believed  ye.  Boys,  this  yere  is  a  reg'lar  put-up 
job  o'  murder,  cold-blooded  murder.  The  old  man  hadn't 
the  nerve  ter  do  it,  so  this  young  feller  does  it  fer  him. 
Those  in  favour  of  hangin'  the  two  of  'em,  here  an'  now, 
hold  up  their  hands." 

Some  men  held  up  two  hands. 

"One  hand'll  do,  boys.  Good!  You  air  in  favour  of 
lynchin'  'em.  You  all  know,  fer  a  cold  fact,  that  in  this 
yere  cow-country  any  man  with  a  pull  kin  git  off  a  charge 
of  murder  in  the  first  degree.  You  all  know  that  the  sheriff 
ain't  hed  to  hang  a  man  since  he's  held  office.  This  Arel- 
lanes  has  a  pull.  If  we  let  the  law  o'  the  land  deal  with 
him,  he'll  escape.  If  ye  feel  jest  as  I  do,  hold  up  yer  hands" 
agen." 

Arellanes  remained  silent.    Tim  said  excitedly : 

"I'm  a  British  subject.  I've  never  taken  out  my  naturali- 
sation papers.  You  boys  had  better  be  careful." 

"A  Britisher?  Ye  look  like  a  Dago.  A  Britisher?"  He 
laughed  savagely.  "That  makes  it  easier.  We  don't  want 
no  Dagoes  nor  no  Britishers  either  in  Gawd's  country." 

Don  Clodomiro  spoke  slowly : 

"Teem  is  innocent.    He  works  for  me." 

"Innocent?  About  as  innocent  as  you  air!  March  'em 
out,  boys.  The  nearest  live-oak'll  do." 

"You  damned  curs  and  cowards,"  said  Tim. 


IV 

They  were  marched  out,  and  down  the  hill  till  a  suitable 
place  of  execution  was  found.  Arellanes  said  nothing ;  his 
face  was  pale  but  impassive.  Perhaps  he  was  reserving  his 
powers,  concentrating  all  energies  upon  the  last  supreme 
appeal.  Two  hair  ropes  were  produced  and  prepared. 
Tim  began  to  tremble;  and  then  he  swore  to  himself  that 
he  would  die  like  a  man.  The  luck  had  gone  dead  against 
him — from  the  first.  It  struck  him  as  almost  absurd  that 

163 


Timothy 

he  might  be  dead  in  five  minutes.  Where  would  he  be  in 
ten?  A  scene  from  his  early  childhood  flashed  into  his 
mind  with  startling  vividness.  His  nurse  had  reported  him 
to  the  Vicar  for  some  mischievous  act.  The  Vicar  lifted 
him  on  to  his  knee,  and  said :  "You  know,  Tim,  you  and  I 
are  the  only  two  men  in  this  house.  Aren't  you  giving  more 
than  your  fair  share  of  the  trouble?"  He  had  swelled 
into  a  man  then,  and  now  he  was  a  child  for  a  brief  in- 
stant. His  thoughts  swooped  from  the  past  into  the  fu- 
ture. He  saw  the  Vicar's  face  whiten  and  wither,  as  the 
brutal  blow  struck  him.  He  might  well  believe  that  murder 
had  been  done — and  expiated.  Daffy  might  see  a  para- 
graph in  the  morning  paper :  "Young  Englishman  lynched 
in  California."  He  thought  of  Preble,  who  had  screamed 
horribly.  He  would  not  scream.  Already  he  felt  suffocat- 
ing; his  tongue  swelled;  his  mouth  was  parched;  a  bitter 
taste  filled  it.  Why  the  devil  didn't  they  hurry  up  and  do 
the  trick?  He  had  a  glimpse,  no  more,  of  his  mother's 
picture.  She  had  borne  him  for  this. 

The  voice  of  the  leader  seemed  to  float  from  immeasur- 
able distances. 

"Anything  to  say  ?" 

"Yes,  senor,"  replied  Arellanes.  He  spoke  with  extraor- 
dinary dignity  and  solemnity,  weighing  his  words.  "You 
mean  to  kill  me,  and  I — Clodomiro  Maria  Arellanes — am 
ready.  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  seiiors,  and  I  am  prepared  to 
die.  I  knew  that  Bannon  would  kill  me,  eef  I  didn't  kill 
him.  And  I  killed  him  this  afternoon.  But  Teem,  he  know 
nothing.  But  when  I  come  back,  he  suspect.  Yes;  I  see 
that  he  suspect  me.  I  go  to  my  room,  to — I  am  not  ashamed 
of  that — to  pray.  Te^m,  he  look  at  the  rifle,  he  clean  it, 
and  he  slip  the  shell  into  his  pocket.  Is  it  possible,  I  ask 
you,  that  a  guilty  man  should  do  a  thing  so  foolish,  so 
senseless?  and  Teem,  he  have  plenty  of  sense.  Kill  me, 
but  let  Teem  go." 

There  was  silence.  Tim  knew  that  his  life  hung  upon  a 
164 


Agua  Caliente 

word,  a  nod.  The  sweat  broke  out  upon  his  skin.  Arel- 
lanes  continued,  as  clearly  and  composedly  as  before: 

"Senors,  I  have  a  daughter.  She  is  away  from  home. 
Perhaps  I  send  her  from  Agua  Caliente  because  I  know 
trouble  is  coming  to  my  house.  Let  Teem  go  to  her.  She 
will  need  a  man.  Some  of  you  are  fathers,  no?  Then  you 
will  understand.  I  have  spoken." 

The  leader  stood  silent;  some  of  the  others  whispered. 
Tim  could  guess  what  might  be  said.  Dead  men  tell  no 
tales.  How  often  he  had  read  that  line  in  some  boy's  story 
of  adventure!  And  now  he  applied  it  to  himself,  recog- 
nising the  inexorable  truth  of  it.  Suddenly,  the  leader 
spoke : 

"The  old  man  has  confessed,  and  he  must  hang,  as  a 
warning  to  others.  We  squatters  have  no  dollars  to  waste 
in  lawsuits.  The  boy  may  or  may  not  be  a  party,  but  fer 
me  I  believe  he  ain't.  But  he  may  make  trouble  fer  us. 
I'm  willin'  ter  risk  that." 

"Same  here,"  said  a  voice. 

"Those  in  favour  of  hangin'  the  boy  hold  up  their 
hands !" 

Two  hands  shot  up ;  then  three ;  then  a  fourth.  Tim  felt 
that  the  others  were  wavering.  Possibly,  the  leader  real- 
ised his  tremendous  responsibility. 

"Cut  him  loose,"  he  said. 

Tim  was  released. 

"Come  you  here,"  said  the  leader,  in  his  muffled  voice. 
Tim  approached. 

"You  skin  outer  this — quick.  Go  to  the  girl ;  she'll  need 
ye.  Saddle  yer  plug  and — scoot!  And  be  mighty  keerful 
how  you  talk  o'  this  yere  act  o'  justice.  Ye  don't  know 
us,  but,  by  God !  we  know  you.  Git !" 

"Good-bye,  Teem,"  said  Arellanes. 

Tim  went  up  to  him  with  the  tears  raining  down  his  face. 
He  was  utterly  unstrung,  trembling,  hardly  able  to  speak. 
The  moon  had  risen;  and  he  could  see  clearly  the  face  of 

165 


Timothy 

Magdalena's  father,  the  impassive,  finely  cut  features,  the 
strange  quiet  eyes,  deep  pools  without  sun-flecks  in  them. 

"Embrace  me,  my  son,"  he  spoke  in  Spanish. 

Tim  kissed  his  cold  cheek  and  remembered  afterwards 
how  cold  it  was. 

"Embrace  my  Magdalena  for  me.  May  the  Blessed 
Virgin  protect  you  and  her !  Adios  1" 


166 


CHAPTER  V 

MAGDALENA 


MAGDALENA  was  crooning  a  love  song  when  Tim  gal- 
loped into  Santa  Barbara.  During  that  long  ride 
from  Agua  Caliente  he  had  wondered  how  he  should  break 
the  appalling  news.  Being  little  more  than  a  boy,  he  ig- 
nored the  instinct  of  women,  their  amazing  divination. 
Long  afterwards  Magdalena  told  him  that  she  was  expect- 
ing trouble.  It  hung  in  the  air  at  the  adobe;  it  accom- 
panied her  to  Santa  Barbara;  it  haunted  waking  hours 
and  dreams.  Before  Tim  spoke  ever  a  word,  at  the  first 
glance  into  his  drawn  and  stricken  face,  she  wailed  out : 

"Ay  de  mi !    My  father  is  dead — dead !" 

Tim  answered  hoarsely: 

"Yes." 

"Bannon  kill  him !    I  know — I  know." 

Tim  took  her  small  hand,  holding  it  firmly : 

"Magdalena,  your  father  killed  Bannon;  and  now  he  is 
dead." 

At  the  moment  he  could  say  no  more.  Magdalena  rushed 
into  the  house,  wailing.  Tim  attended  to  his  horse,  which 
was  nearly  spent.  There  were  other  Spanish  women  in  the 
house.  Tim  heard  them  wailing  with  Magdalena,  a  long 
wild  note  of  anguish. 

Magdalena's  host,  a  kinsman  of  Don  Clodomiro,  came 
out  to  greet  Tim.  When  he  heard  the  facts,  he  opened 
his  hands,  held  them  for  an  instant  palm  upwards,  and 

167 


Timothy 

then  turned  them  palm  downwards.  The  gesture  was  an 
epitaph  on  the  old  order.  Tim  said: 

"We  must  bring  these  hounds  to  justice." 

The  Spaniard  shook  his  head  mournfully.  Tim  said  pas- 
sionately : 

"They  murdered  Don  Clodomiro,  and  they  nearly  mur- 
dered me." 

"Huy !" 

"If  there  is  law  in  California !" 

"You  will  see,  senor.    Nothing  will  be  done,  nothing." 

And  again  that  deprecating  gesture. 

They  drove  to  Agua  Caliente,  to  cut  down  the  poor 
body,  and  take  it  back  to  the  adobe.  Magdalena  remained 
with  the  women.  Tim  never  saw  her  alone  till  after  the 
funeral. 

II 

An  inquest  followed,  of  course. 

Tim  was  called  as  a  witness.  On  the  faces  of  coroner 
and  jury  he  beheld  a  half-sullen,  half-derisive  expression. 
Justice,  in  their  opinion,  had  been  vindicated.  Judge  Lynch 
had  done  his  duty.  The  sacred  rights  of  the  poor  squat- 
ter were  proclaimed  in  vile  English  with  copious  expec- 
toration of  tobacco- juice ! 

A  juryman  said  solemnly  to  Tim: 

"Young  sir,  you're  hed  a  mighty  close  call.  Be  more 
keerful  after  this." 

"I  shall  pick  my  company,  you  may  be  sure,"  replied 
Tim,  and  the  interlocutor  lay  awake  that  night  for  at  least 
half  an  hour  wondering  what  the  derned  Britisher  meant. 

Uncle  Sam  took  no  further  action.  The  writer  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  inquest.  He  prefers  to  record  the  facts 
without  comment.  Had  Tim  died,  when  the  greaser  slipped 
a  knife  into  him,  the  verdict  would  have  been  Justifiable 
Homicide. 

Don  Clodomiro  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  Catholic  ceme- 
168 


Magdalena 

tery,  and  soon  forgotten.  Tom  Bannon  was  buried,  also. 
One  of  the  squatters  observed  to  the  widow  on  the  day 
of  the  funeral : 

"Cheer  up,  Marm.    We  give  Tom  a  fine  send-off !" 


in 

Magdalena  and  Tim  met  alone  in  the  sitting-room  of  the 
adobe.  It  contained  some  fine  pieces  of  mahogany  brought 
round  the  Horn  in  early  days,  and  paid  for  with  hides  and 
tallow,  or  with  slugs  of  gold  which  lay  in  a  basket  in  the 
tapanco,  or  garret.  Don  Clodomiro,  as  a  young  man,  would 
remove  a  tile  from  the  roof,  and  drop  a  lump  of  tallow 
at  the  end  of  a  cord  into  the  basket,  and  so  secure  extra 
pocket-money.  His  father  winked  at  such  petty  larceny. 
Had  he  not  done  the  same  in  his  youth? 

Magdalena  looked  pitifully  small  and  forlorn  in  her 
black  garments,  but  she  assumed  a  certain  dignity  as  be- 
came her  father's  daughter.  Tim  sat  beside  her  upon  a 
horse-hair  sofa. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Magdalena?" 

"Teem,  I  do  not  know." 

"You  have  this  ranch  and  a  little  money  in  the  bank — 
not  much." 

"You  will  stay  with  me,  Teem?" 

"You  want  to  stay  on  here?" 

She  caught  a  note  of  protest,  of  surprise  in  his  voice. 

"It  is  my  home,  Teem.  I  cannot  go  to  my  cousins,  be- 
cause they  are  poor.  Shall  I  sell  Agua  Caliente,  no?" 

"Not  yet,  dear." 

He  spoke  of  the  bituminous  rock,  of  the  oil,  of  the  hot 
sulphur  spring.  She  listened  attentively,  nodding  her  head. 
She  might  be  ignorant  of  many  things,  but  here  was  no 
empty-pated  girl.  A  woman  looked  into  Tim's  blue  eyes. 

"You  no  want  to  stay,  Teem  ?" 

"J  want  to  do  what  is  best  for  you." 

169 


Timothy 

Her  eyes  brightened ;  a  few  sunny  flecks  danced  in  them, 
as  she  sighed: 

"You  are  a  good,  kind  Teem." 

He  said  excitedly: 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  Magdalena.  You  will  never 
know,  dear,  how  sorry  I  am!" 

"Ohe !    I  know."    She  pressed  his  hand  softly. 

"I  am  racking  my  brains  to  decide  what  is  best  for  you. 
Your  poor  father  asked  me  to  watch  out  for  you:  and  I 
promised  him  that  I  would." 

"Yes ;  you  are  a  good  Teem."  She  continued  quietly,  as 
if  she  had  pondered  her  words.  "I  wish  you  to  stay  here 
with  me." 

"But,  Magdalena " 

She  just  touched  his  lips  with  her  finger,  silencing  him. 

"You  have  been  happy  here,  no?" 

"Most  awfully  happy." 

"But  sometimes,  at  night,  you  have  thought  of  your 
own  country,  of  England, — of  some  pretty  girls,  perhaps, 
who  is  waiting  for  you,  Teem." 

The  bitterness  in  his  voice  brought  a  flush  to  her  cheeks, 
as  he  replied : 

"There  is  no  girl  waiting  for  me,  Magdalena." 

He  fell  into  a  reverie;  she  watched  him,  playing  with 
the  crepe  upon  her  gown.  Then  she  said  falteringly : 

"Teem,  at  the  last,  when  you  take  leave  of  my  father — 
did  he  send  no  message  to  me?" 

"He  called  upon  the  Virgin  to  bless  you." 

Magdalena  crossed  herself. 

"Nothing  else?" 

Tim  whispered  bashfully: 

"He  told  me  to  embrace  you — for  him." 

It  sounded  oddly  in  English ;  he  wished  that  he  was 
talking  Spanish.  Magdalena  turned  her  cheek : 

"I  will  take  his  last  kiss  from  you,  Teem." 

He  kissed  her  solemnly.    Her  head  drooped  till  it  rested 
upon  his  shoulder.    She  began  to  cry. 
170 


Magdalena 

• 

"I  am  so  lonely,  mi  amigo." 

Tim's  heart  thumped  against  his  ribs.  She  was  clinging 
to  him,  sobbing  unrestrainedly.  A  tempest  of  emotion  shook 
him  and  her.  He,  too,  felt  unbearably  lonely  and  forlorn. 
She  wanted  him.  She  was  a  sweet,  good  girl,  and  a  lady. 

He  kissed  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  She  allowed  him 
to  do  so.  He  kissed  her  pretty  hair,  her  forehead,  and 
lastly  her  lips.  Then  doubt  fled.  He  loved  her;  and  she 
loved  him. 

"Magdalena!" 

"Teem?" 

"Will  you  be  my  little  wife?" 

She  answered  in  Spanish : 

"God  of  my  soul!  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first.  I 
adore  you.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  spirit  and 
body." 

Her  passion  whirled  him  to  heights — and  depths.  Mag- 
dalena was  a  pure  maiden.  Must  he  tell  her  his  sordid 
story,  blacken  the  whiteness  of  her  love?  He  told  himself 
sorrowfully  that  no  other  course  was  open.  If  she  wanted 
him — and  he  wanted  her — let  her  take  him  as  he  was,  or 
let  him  go.  But  he  trembled  with  fear  that  she  might  let 
him  go. 

IV 

He  told  the  tale  for  the  third  time,  sensible  that  it  lost 
in  the  telling,  that  it  exhaled  a  stale  odour,  which  must 
offend  the  nostrils  of  the  girl  who  listened  so  attentively, 
with  her  great  eyes  gazing  into  his.  As  he  recited  the  crude 
facts,  he  could  see  his  image  reflected  in  those  liquid  pools, 
a  shrunken  presentment.  He  felt  abnormally  small. 

When  he  had  finished,  when  he  stood  naked  and  ashamed 
before  her,  she  burst  again  into  tears.  But  they  were  shed 
for  him,  not  for  herself.  She  said  brokenly : 

"Oh!  you  have  suffered — you  have  suffered.  But  it  is 
nothing — nothing.  I  shall  make  you  forget,  ohe!  My  love 


Timothy 

will  make  you  forget,  Teem.  Don't  stare  at  me  so,  you  fool- 
ish boy!  I  am  not  angry.  Ah!  Dios!  but  I  could  strike 
Ivy.  I  hate  her,  because  she  hated  you.  You  no  under- 
stand me !  And  you  have  given  her  a  child !  And  still  she 
hate  you !  God  of  my  soul !  is  it  possible  ?" 

"You  are  a  wonder,"  said  Tim.  He  added  in  a  whis- 
per: "And  not  yet  eighteen." 

"Eighteen!"  She  laughed  scornfully;  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell.  "I  have  seen  girls  of  fourteen  who  would  un- 
derstand and  weep  for  you.  We  are  not  cold,  we  Spanish ! 
But  she — she  must  be  of  ice.  To  have  you,  my  beautiful 
Teem,  and  then  to  throw  you  away !  Ay !  Ay !" 

She  pressed  his  head  to  her  bosom  with  a  superbly  ma- 
ternal passion.  He  could  hear  the  throbbing  of  her  heart, 
beating  for  him  alone. 

"Heavens !"  he  exclaimed.    "How  I'll  work  for  you !" 

She  laughed  happily. 

"I  shall  work  too,  my  Teem.     We  will  work  together." 

Then  she  frowned;  and  Tim  kissed  away  the  frown. 

"What  is  it,  you  angel  ?" 

"It  will  pass,  but  I  am  jealous  of  the  boy.     Is  it  wicked 

of  me  to  grudge  her  that?  Yes;  yes.  But  if  she  hates 
uj  |» 

"No,  no,  Magdalena.  The  child  is  well  cared  for.  He 
is  strong  and  healthy." 

"Ah!  Could  your  child  be  anything  else?  Mi  querido, 
this  has  drawn  you  closer  to  me.  How  right  and  wise  you 
were  to  tell  me.  A  man  can  tell  anything,  anything  to  the 
woman  who  loves  him." 

She  spoke  of  herself  as  a  woman ;  and  he  had  wit  enough 
not  to  contradict  her. 


They  were  married. 

Tim  did  not  tell  the  Vicar  of  his  marriage.     Remember 
that  he  was  living  in  the  land  of  Mariana,  with  a  daughter 
172 


Magdalena 

of  a  procrastinating  race.  Day  by  day,  he  postponed  the 
task  which  involved  explanations  and  exculpations;  day  by 
day  it  became  increasingly  difficult  to  write  with  entire 
frankness.  He  had  married  a  Roman  Catholic.  To  please 
Magdalena  he  had  been  received  into  Holy  Mother  Church. 
The  Vicar  would  be  terribly  pained;  and  surely  another 
man's  child  had  caused  him  pain  enough.  No  apologies 
need  be  offered  for  Tim's  defection  from  the  Church  of 
England.  Before  and  just  after  the  Gringo  came,  it  used  to 
be  a  saying  in  Southern  California  that  the  Englishmen 
and  Americans  who  married  the  senoritas  and  espoused 
also  their  religion  left  their  consciences  at  Cape  Horn.  Tim 
wanted  to  please  a  wife  who  adored  him. 

Magdalena  made  him  very  happy. 

One  must  try  to  behold  them  as  Daphnis  and  Chloe 
in  Arcadia.  They  were  too  young  and  too  healthy  to 
analyse  happiness — that  fatal  blunder!  They  accepted  it 
joyously.  Sometimes  Tim  would  say  to  himself:  "What- 
ever happens  now,  I  have  had  an  inning." 

He  went  about  his  work.  As  a  rule,  Magdalena  accom- 
panied him.  When  he  ploughed,  she  would  drive  the 
horses;  when  he  chopped  wood,  she  piled  it  into  neat 
cords.  He  fed  the  horses,  but  she  watered  them.  He  helped 
her  in  the  kitchen,  and  learned  the  mysterious  processes  of 
Spanish  cooking. 

He  was  obliged  to  tell  her  many  times  a  day  that  he 
loved  her.  She  would  laugh  and  hold  up  her  finger : 

"Sure,  Teem?" 

"Quite  sure !" 

"Ohe,  what  a  nice  Teem  you  are!" 

After  supper,  she  would  curl  up  in  a  chair,  and  look 
at  Tim,  while  he  read  aloud.  Sometimes  he  would  pause 
and  say: 

"Do  you  understand  that,  Brownie?" 

And  she  would  reply : 

"No;  but  I  love  to  hear  your  voice.     Go  on,  Teem." 

Then  he  would  lay  down  the  book  or  the  paper,  and  try 

173 


Timothy 

to  make  things  clear.  She  had  plenty  of  intelligence,  but 
it  was  not  prudent  to  lead  her  far  from  her  own  circle. 
She  always  frowned  a  little  when  he  spoke  of  England. 
They  saw  few  neighbours,  because  Magdalena  held  in  hor- 
ror the  squatters,  regarding  them  as  murderers;  but  the 
invasion  continued.  Some  newcomers,  not  those  who  took 
up  claims,  were  pleasant  enough  people.  They  bought  land, 
planted  out  orchards,  and  built  fairly  comfortable  houses. 
Many  possessed  independent  means,  and  these,  as  a  rule, 
were  seeking  health  and  climate.  The  fame  of  the  sulphur 
spring  spread  abroad.  Don  Clodomiro  had  built  a  small 
shanty,  holding  a  couple  of  bath-tubs,  made  of  redwood, 
stained  black  by  the  sulphur.  Tim  saw  possibilities  of 
adding  to  a  small  income.  He  built  some  cheap  bath- 
houses; and  bought  many  towels,  charging  a  dollar  for 
a  bain  complet.  Within  six  months,  to  the  immense  surprise 
of  our  Arcadians,  they  were  making  a  hundred  dollars  a 
month,  clear,  out  of  the  bathing  establishment,  with  a  happy 
prospect  of  even  handsomer  dividends. 

In  Don  Clodomiro's  time  there  had  been  no  garden,  in 
the,  English  sense  of  .the  word.  In  the  orchard,  all  vege- 
tables grew  like  Jack's  beanstalk,  and  over  the  old  adobe 
clambered  a  few  roses,  blooming  perpetually.  Tim  was 
not  satisfied  till  he  had  a  small  lawn  enclosed  with  a  cypress 
fence,  and  many  flowers.  Watering  the  lawn  was  an  easy 
job,  for  he  bought  a  couple  of  sprinklers,  which  Magda- 
lena kept  for  ever  on  the  move.  Water  never  failed  them. 

He  noticed  that  Magdalena  never  spoke  of  the  future 
and  very  rarely  of  the  past.  She  lived  joyously  in  an 
enchanting  present.  One  day  Tim  said  casually: 

"Your  father  married  after  he  was  thirty." 

"Oh,  no!  He  married  young.  He  was  twenty;  my 
mother  was  sixteen." 

"And  you  were  the  only  child." 

"I  was  the  youngest.  There  was,"  she  checked  them  off 
upon  her  fingers,  "Ramon,  and  Luis,  and  Juan,  and  Narciso, 
and  poor  Dolores." 


Magdalena 

"Heavens !    But  where  are  they  ?" 

"They  are  dead,  Teem." 

"Dead?"    He  stared  at  her  hungrily.    "But  how?    Why?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"The  consumption!  Ay  de  mi!  So  many  of  our  race 
die  of  the  consumption.  It  is  strange,  Teem.  The  Indians 
die  like  that,  too,  so  my  father  say.  And  now  it  is  our 
turn.  Perhaps  the  Gringos  will  die,  too,  no?" 

"Consumption?" 

He  kissed  her  fiercely,  straining  her  small  body  to  his 
mighty  chest.  He  told  himself  that  she  enjoyed  superb 
health,  which  was  true,  and  henceforward  he  would  watch 
her  jealously,  keep  her  in  cotton  wool,  his  blessed  little 
wife. 

"Teem,  how  you  squeeze  me!  How  I  love  to  be  squeezed 
by  you,  mi  querido !" 

His  fear  passed,  but  the  shadow  of  it  lay  black  across 
the  future. 

VI 

Once  a  month  he  wrote  to  and  received  a  letter  from 
the  Vicar.  He  heard  thus  of  his  old  friends,  and  wondered 
whether  they  had  forgotten  him.  What  fun  it  would  be 
to  crack  a  long  yarn  with  the  dear  old  Colonel,  and  to  run 
round  the  village,  chaffing  the  cottagers !  Perhaps  he  would 
never  see  any  of  them  again.  At  such  moments  an  odd 
yearning  twisted  him,  not  homesickness,  something  more 
subtile,  a  racial  feeling,  the  call  of  mother-country  which 
most  exiles,  however  happy,  must  experience. 

Two  years  after  Tim's  marriage,  the  Vicar  reported 
the  news  of  Daffy's  engagement  to  the  eldest  son  of  a 
rich  peer,  a  well-known  ironmaster,  exalted  by  Gladstone 
to  the  Upper  House,  and  now — so  the  Vicar  wrote — a  con- 
firmed Tory.  "It's  a  big  marriage,  but  she  is  a  beautiful, 
clever  woman.  I  hope  she  will  be  happy.  The  young  man 
is  in  the  Guards.  Mrs.  Carmichael  told  me  that  she  was 

175 


Timothy 

ready  to  sing  her  'Nunc  Dimittis/  but  I  accepted  this  with 
reservations." 

Tim  did  not  show  this  letter  to  Magdalena.  He  rode, 
instead,  into  the  back-pasture,  tied  his  horse  to  a  live-oak, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  introspection. 

Daffy  had  become  an  attenuated  shade  haunting  misty 
corners  of  his  memory.  He  thought  of  her  tenderly,  but 
he  might  have  shewn  such  thoughts  to  Magdalena.  Wisely, 
he  did  not  do  so.  He  tried  to  behold  Daffy  as  a  great  lady, 
a  woman  of  high  fashion.  She  would  adorn  any  station. 
Her  future  husband,  no  doubt,  would  leave  the  Army  and 
enter  Parliament.  Daffy  would  push  him  on.  Her  beauty 
and  cleverness  would  be  incalculable  assets. 

He  might  have  married  Daffy. 

No  regrets  tore  him.  He  had  taken  the  colour  of  his 
surroundings.  He  was  brown  as  any  Spaniard,  brown  as 
the  foothills  in  summer,  brown  and  hard,  physically  as 
near  perfection  as  a  man  can  be.  To  love  and  be  loved, 
to  work  not  too  strenuously  at  congenial  tasks,  to  behold 
the  concrete  results  of  such  labour,  to  make  much  out  of 
little — wasn't  this  sufficient  for  any  man  ? 

He  could  not  answer  the  insistent  question  quite  hon- 
estly. There  were  ever-recurring  moments  when  something 
within  him  clamoured  for  greater  triumphs  than  a  small 
ranch  could  furnish.  The  Vicar  sent  him  papers,  the  Spec- 
tator, then  under  Hutton's  admirable  editorship,  and  The 
Illustrated  London  News.  Now  and  again  he  would  see 
the  picture  or  read  news  of  some  school-fellow  who  had 
achieved  distinction.  More  often  than  not  he  could  vividly 
recall  the  fellow  as  one  whom  he  had  reckoned  his  intel- 
lectual inferior.  He  was  not  of  a  jealous  temperament, 
but  pangs  assailed  him  when  he  tried  to  measure  the  tri- 
umphs of  his  contemporaries. 

Magdalena  wanted  children,  but  none  came  to  them. 

He  thought  of  the  unknown  child  to  whom  he,  the  fa- 
ther, was  unknown.  According  to  the  Vicar,  the  urchin  was 
thriving,  a  jolly  little  chap  nearly  six  years  old!  What 
176 


Magdalena 

would  become  of  him?  Sometimes  he  wondered  whether 
it  might  be  possible  to  take  the  boy  from  Ivy,  if  Magda- 
lena bore  him  no  others.  Magdalena  would  mother  his 
child ;  he  was  quite  sure  of  that.  Ivy,  heartless  little  ani- 
mal, might  be  glad  to  let  him  go. 

Presently,  he  tore  up  the  Vicar's  letter,  and  watched  the 
summer's  breeze  play  with  the  bits  of  paper.  One  bit  was 
caught  by  a  higher  current  and  whirled  out  of  sight.  So 
it  had  been  with  him! 

In  his  leisure  hours,  he  made  many  pencil  drawings, 
much  admired  by  Magdalena.  He  abandoned  caricature, 
and  tried  to  reproduce  what  he  saw  as  faithfully  as  possi- 
ble. Continual  practice  brought  about  aptitude.  Then  he 
began  to  paint  in  oil,  attempting  many  portraits  of  Mag- 
dalena, who  declared  that  she  loved  to  pose.  A  wandering 
artist  from  San  Francisco  saw  some  of  his  sketches. 

"These  are  very  good,"  he  said.  "Where  did  you  learn 
to  draw?" 

Tim  confessed  that  he  was  self-taught.  He  had  always 
drawn,  spoiling  reams  of  paper.  The  artist  nodded. 

"That's  the  only  way.    It's  a  pity " 

"A  pity?" 

"That  you  can't  take  this  up  seriously.  You  have  an  ex- 
traordinary sense  of  colour.  That  is  a  gift.  I  shall  never 
have  it.  You  need  two  years  hard  work  in  Paris." 

"Anything  else?"  asked  Tim. 

The  artist  remained  a  month,  and  was  kind  enough  to 
overhaul  Tim's  colour-box,  and  to  give  him  many  hints. 
When  he  left  the  neighbouring  village,  he  said  to  Tim: 

"Stick  to  your  drawing.  Draw  everything  and  every- 
body. I'll  send  you  a  text-book  or  two  on  perspective 
and  anatomy." 

Another  year  glided  by. 

California  was  prospering ;  the  boom  in  land  approached 
its  zenith.  One  day,  Tim  opened  a  letter  addressed  to  the 
owner  of  Agua  Caliente  Rancho;  the  handwriting  seemed 
familiar.  To  his  immense  surprise  and  pleasure,  the  let- 

177 


Timothy 

ter  was  written  by  his  old  friend,  Harvey  Cooke,  written 
on  business  paper  and  typewritten.  Harvey  Cooke,  appar- 
ently, was  a  real-estate  agent  in  Santa  Barbara.  He  wrote 
to  ask  if  Agua  Caliente  was  for  sale,  and,  if  so,  at  what 
price.  Obviously,  he  had  not  the  smallest  idea  that  he  was 
writing  to  Tim. 

In  much  excitement  Tim  shewed  the  letter  to  Magdalena, 
who  advised  him  to  answer  it  in  person.  Let  him  ride  into 
Santa  Barbara,  and  renew  his  friendship  with  Senor  Cooke. 
That  would  be  a  fine  pasear ! 

"But  you  do  not  want  to  sell  Agua  Caliente,  no?'' 

"That's  your  affair,  Brownie.  If  we  were  offered  a 
thumping  price,  what  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  wondering  how  she  would 
reply. 

"Dios!  I  should  like  my  Teem  to  be  rich.  He  is  so 
clever,  cleverer  than  the  Gringos.  It  takes  money  ta 
make  money.  Father  say  that.  I  suppose  we  are  almost 
paisanos."  She  sighed,  adding  sweetly :  "I  am  ambeetious, 
Teem,  not  for  myself,  but  for  you.  Ohe !  I  would  sell 
Agua  Caliente  to  make  you  rich." 


VII 

Next  day,  he  rode  into  Santa  Barbara,  leaving  Magda- 
lena behind,  although  he  asked  her  to  accompany  him. 

"No;  you  will  want  to  talk  and  talk  with  Senor  Cooke. 
I  shall  prepare  a  fiesta.  Ojala!  You  will  see!" 

Since  Don  Clodomiro's  death,  the  old  Indian  woman  had 
remained  with  them.  Magdalena  would  be  quite  happy 
making  tamales  with  her. 

Cooke  greeted  him  very  cordially,  amazed  to  hear  of 
Tim's  marriage,  and  eager  to  recite  his  own  adventures. 
He  had  bought  and  managed  a  small  hotel  in  Santa  Cruz, 
selling  it  eventually  at  a  handsome  profit.  Then  he  had 
drifted  into  the  real-estate  business,  the  subdivision  of 
I78 


Magdalena 

town  plots,  fire  and  life  insurance,  and  so  forth.    He  con- 
cluded on  a  jubilant  note: 

"I  am  going  to  make  a  pile,  Tim.  It's  a  dead  cert.  I've 
caught  on,  cut  my  wisdom  teeth." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Tim. 

"You  look  fine.  Lord !  how  green  we  were  in  the  old 
days!  You  must  dine  with  us  to-night.  The  Missus  will 
hug  you." 

"And  the  boys?" 

"Both  doing  well,  but  they've  cut  loose  from  me.  One 
in  the  Railroad — fine  service!  T'other  is  specialising  in 
prunes  in  the  Santa  Clara  Valley." 

Tim  dined  with  them.  Cooke  cracked  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. After  dinner  the  men  smoked  two  big  cigars.  Cooke 
said  that  he  would  return  with  Tim  and  inspect  the  sulphur 
spring. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  had  become  slightly  American  in  his 
modes  of  speech,  "you  may  have  a  bonanza.  And  bitu- 
minous rock  indicates  oil.  You  let  me  nose  about  a  bit." 

"Bring  Mrs.  Cooke.  I  want  her  to  meet  my  wife.  We 
can  put  you  up,  if  you  don't  mind  roughing  it." 

"Done !" 

"Have  you  any  children,  Tim?"  asked  Mrs.  Cooke. 

"No." 

"It  is  funny  to  think  of  you  as  a  Benedict." 

Tim  rode  back  early  to  prepare  Magdalena.  She  was 
delighted  at  the  prospect  of  entertaining  her  husband's 
friends.  Nothing  she  possessed  was  too  good  for  them. 
The  old  Indita  and  she  retired  to  the  kitchen. 

The  Cookes  drove  over  in  a  buggy,  and  stayed  for  two 
days.  Harvey  Cooke's  energy  fired  Tim.  The  elder  man 
seemed  to  be  vastly  impressed  by  the  sulphur  spring,  al- 
though he  made  a  grimace  when  he  tasted  the  water,  but 
he  remarked  hopefully : 

"The  worse  it  tastes,  the  better.    Cheap  medicine !" 

Mrs.  Cooke  talked  to  Magdalena : 

179 


Timothy 

"You  have  the  dearest  little  place,  but  isn't  Tim  rather 
wasted  on  a  small  ranch?" 

"Ohe,  I  know." 

"My  husband  has  the  highest  opinion  of  him.  And  you  ? 
Wouldn't  you  be  happier  in  Santa  Barbara?  Forgive  an 
old  woman's  frankness,  but  you  are  quite  charming.  Tim 
is  a  lucky  fellow.  Society  in  Santa  Barbara  would  wel- 
come such  a  nice  pair." 

Magdalena  said  proudly: 

"I  am  of  kin  to  the  Estradas,  and  Bandinis  and  De  la 
Guerras." 

"Your  position,  then,  will  be  assured." 


VIII 

This  visit  brought  about  immense  changes.  Cooke's  op- 
timism, combined  with  his  natural  shrewdness  and  worldly 
wisdom,  infected  Tim  and  Magdalena.  Any  suspicion  that 
his  old  friends  had  paid  a  visit  to  Agua  Caliente  for  "busi- 
ness" purposes  vanished  utterly,  when  Cooke  took  Tim 
aside  and  said : 

"Look  here,  my  boy,  I  want  you." 

"What  for?" 

"I  must  have  a  partner.  I  see  the  finger  of  Providence 
in  this.  By  George!  I  do.  I  want  you,  Tim,  to  come  in 
with  me  right  here  and  now.  And  between  us  we'll  make 
the  fur  fly.  I  know  you,  and  you  know  me.  It's  the  chance 
of  a  lifetime." 

"But  I've  no  capital." 

"I  don't  care.  You've  a  good  head  on  stout  shoulders. 
And  you've  had  an  immense  and  invaluable  experience  of 
men.  You  can  handle  'em.  My  notion  is  to  run  my  real- 
estate  business  as  I  ran  my  hotel — on  strictly  honest  lines. 
Men  with  land  to  sell  will  hunt  us,  because  we  shall  treat 
them  squarely;  men  who  want  to  buy  land  will  hunt  us 
for  just  the  same  reason.  I  tell  you,  it's  a  cinch." 
180 


Magdalena 

"And  the  ranch?" 

"Do  nothing  hastily  about  that.  We  must  boom  the 
sulphur-spring  business.  I  suggest  putting  in  a  manager 
pro  tern.  We'll  find  some  enterprising  cove  with  coin 
who'll  bore  for  oil  on  shares.  The  income  from  the  spring 
and  what  you'll  make  with  me  will  keep  you  going  nicely 
in  Santa  Barbara.  And,  dash  it!  you  ought  to  think  of 
your  wife.  Do  you  propose  to  bury  that  charming  creature 
in  these  brush  hills?" 

"This  is  most  awfully  good  of  you." 

"As  to  that,  I  repeat  I  want  you.  I'd  sooner  have  you 
than  either  of  my  own  boys.  That's  a  cold  fact.  You 
look — somebody,  and  personality  is  worth  big  money  in  a 
new  country." 

Tim  began  hesitatingly: 

"If  Magdalena " 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  ask  her.  She  won't  hang  back. 
She  has  fine  blood  in  her ;  so  have  you ;  are  you  going 
to  chuck  all  ambitions  and  sink  into  a  clod?" 

"Damn  it,  no!" 

Magdalena  and  he  slept  little  that  night.  Before  morn- 
ing the  matter  was  settled  more  or  less  upon  the  lines 
indicated  by  Cooke.  Within  a  week  a  deed  of  partnership 
had  been  drawn  up  by  a  local  attorney,  and  the  signing 
of  it  furnished  an  occasion  for  more  champagne.  By  this 
time  both  Tim  and  Magdalena  were  quite  intoxicated  by 
the  possibilities  panoramically  displayed  by  Cooke.  He 
prattled  of  private  cars,  steam  yachts,  and  other  toys. 

Why  not? 

Nevertheless,  the  actual  signing  of  the  deed  of  partner- 
ship introduced  a  complication.  Cooke  knew  Tim's  name 
to  be  White,  although,  boylike,  he  had  chosen  to  leave  Eng- 
land under  the  name  of  Green.  Cooke  objected  to  Green. 

"Your  salad  days  are  over,  Tim." 

"I  hope  so." 

"Some  of  these  big  land-owners  might  not  care  to  en- 
trust their  interests  to  a  Britisher  called  Green." 

181 


Timothy 


"Good!    I'll  chuck  Green." 

"And  revert  to  White?" 

"No." 

"But  why  not?" 

"I  have  reasons.    Do  I  look  white?" 

"You  look  brown." 

That  will  do  nicely.    Cooke  and  Brown.    Tim  Brown." 

"It's  a  good,  simple  English  name,"  said  Cooke. 

"Floreat  Brown!"  cried  Tim. 


182 


BOOK  THREE:     BROWN 


BOOK  THREE:    BROWN 
CHAPTER  I 

SANTA   BARBARA 


IT  is  easy  to  make  money  in  boom  times,  because  it  flows 
to  Man  in  a  percolating,  ever-widening  stream.  When 
the  slump  follows,  arid  channels  remain,  and  Man  wonders 
where  the  precious  fluid  has  gone.  Moreover,  to  those 
who  have  not  witnessed  a  big  boom,  the  most  restrained 
account  must  appear  gross  exaggeration.  At  the  height 
of  the  land  excitement  in  Southern  California,  greedy  buy- 
ers stood  in  line  outside  the  real-estate  offices  waiting  their 
turn  to  gobble  up  town-lots  which  they  had  never  seen. 
To  beguile  the  lagging  hours  they  read  pamphlets  and 
studied  maps  upon  which  were  laid  out  cities  nearly  as 
large  as  San  Francisco. 

Tim  plunged  into  this  vortex  of  excitement.  Cooke  and 
he  were  busy  from  morning  till  night,  and  far  into  the 
night.  You  might  have  ransacked  the  Golden  State  to 
find  a  team  better  equipped  to  pull  together.  Tim  sup- 
plied youth  and  enthusiasm:  Cooke  furnished  wisdom 
and  tact.  Cooke  sat  in  the  office,  accessible  to  all-comers, 
invariably  cheery,  suave,  and  counselling  moderation.  Tim 
did  the  "outside"  work,  driving  clients  to  ranches  near  and 
far,  entertaining  them  en  route  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
country  and  its  resources  gleaned  at  first  hand.  The  al 
fresco  luncheons  of  the  firm  became  famous.  Tim  could 
barbecue  beef  on  willow  spits  and  serve  it  piping  hot  to 

185 


Timothy- 

hungry  pilgrims.  He  slaked  their  thirst  with  lager  beer. 
He  provided  the  best  cigars.  The  grimmest  face  relaxed 
when  Tim  told  his  stories,  personal  experiences  racy  of 
the  soil.  Dust  and  heat  never  conquered  his  high  spirits: 
rain  failed  to  dampen  them. 

Cooke  said :  "Give  'em  a  hog-killing  time.  Leave  busi- 
ness to  me.  Yours  is  the  harder  job,  my  boy.  You  must 
play  the  pioneer,  open  up  their  hearts.  I'll  step  in  after- 
wards, and  do  the  rest.  Never  answer  any  question  unless 
you  are  sure  of  the  right  reply.  Refer  what  you  don't  know 
to  me.  Avoid  exaggeration.  Our  competitors  are  mostly 
liars,  and  they  will  be  found  out." 

At  first  the  firm  worked  on  commission,  gleaning  small 
but  certain  profits.  Then  a  big  opportunity  presented 
itself.  A  tract  of  land  just  outside  Santa  Barbara  was 
offered  to  Cooke  and  Brown  at  what  seemed  a  large  price 
even  for  boom  times.  But  Cooke  contended  that  the  de- 
mand for  suburban  lots  had  hardly  begun,  and  predicted 
that  supply  would  not  keep  pace  with  demand  when  it 
did  come.  He  so  impressed  James  Mackinnon,  the  presi- 
dent of  a  local  bank,  with  his  views  that  the  firm  borrowed 
a  sum  of  money  sufficient  to  make  a  first  payment.  Mackin- 
non was  reckoned  to  be  a  "hard  nut,"  possessing  an  ex- 
traordinary knowledge  of  character,  gleaned  during  forty 
years'  strenuous  business  life,  and  the  ability  to  use  brains 
other  than  his  own,  an  essential  faculty  of  business  men. 
In  Cooke  he  recognised  the  pioneer,  for  Cooke's  methods 
(since  adopted  by  rivals  and  successors)  were  at  that  time 
original.  The  firm's  scheme  was  this:  the  other  payments 
due  to  the  owner  of  the  suburban  tract  were  secured  by 
a  first  mortgage  on  the  undivided  property.  Mackinnon, 
therefore,  had  no  security  except  the  promissory  note  of 
Cooke  and  Brown,  plus  the  conviction  that  the  firm's  "prop- 
osition" was  sound.  Cooke  promised  that  all  moneys  from 
sales  should  be  paid  in  full  into  the  bank.  A  certain 
percentage  of  every  dollar  so  paid  was  credited  on  the 
186 


Santa  Barbara 

firm's  note  of  hand :  the  rest  remained  as  a  sinking  fund 
wherewith  to  meet  the  further  payments  due  to  the  owner 
of  the  tract. 

To-day  no  bank  would  do  business  upon  such  lines. 
Within  a  week  the  tract  was  surveyed  and  subdivided. 
Cooke  sold  the  lots  upon  terms  approved  by  Mackinnon, 
taking  a  one-third  cash  payment,  and  a  note  secured  by 
mortgage  for  the  balance.  The  bank  discounted  the  notes. 
Actual  facts  are  given,  because  the  hypercritical  might 
question  the  result. 

Within  three  months  Cooke  and  Brown  had  sold  every 
lot,  and  cleared  up  the  deal.  The  firm  netted  sixty  thousand 
dollars :  everybody  was  satisfied :  and  the  bank,  through  its 
President,  hinted  discreetly  that  it  was  prepared  to  finance 
another  similar  enterprise. 

Tim  had  a  quarter  share  in  all  profits. 


ii 

Magdalena  and  he  were  living  in  a  pretty  cottage  not 
far  from  the  Arlington  Hotel,  the  Mecca  in  those  days  (and 
no  doubt  still)  of  rich  health-seekers.  But  after  the  big 
deal,  Tim  suggested  to  his  wife  the  expediency  of  living 
in  the  hotel,  more  completely  in  touch  with  the  health- 
seekers  and  idle  rich.  Magdalena  made  no  objections. 

Tim  said :  "It  won't  be  so  dull  for  you,  Brownie." 

"I  have  never  been  dull,  Teem." 

At  this  time  he  wrote  to  the  Vicar,  telling  him  everything : 
his  marriage,  his  unexpected  prosperity,  his  intention  of 
bringing  his  wife  to  Little  Pennington.  He  enclosed  a 
photograph.  The  Vicar  wrote  in  reply : 

"I  am  rejoiced.  Your  little  wife  looks  charming.  I  am 
sure  that  I  shall  love  her  dearly  for  her  own  sake.  Come 
to  me  as  reasonably  soon  as  possible.  I  am  not  growing 
younger,  my  dear  boy,  and  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you." 

187 


Timothy 

Of  course  the  junior  partner  could  not  be  spared. 

The  first  fruits  of  the  move  to  the  Arlington  were  laid 
at  Magdalena's  tiny  feet.  A  syndicate  bought  Agua  Caliente 
for  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Tim  and  Magdalena  jumped  hot- 
foot to  accept  such  a  splendid  offer,  but  Cooke  remained 
calm.  The  syndicate  proposed  to  build  an  immense  hotel, 
lay  out  a  small  town,  pave  the  streets  with  bituminous 
rock,  and  probably  bore  for  oil. 

"Stick  out  for  a  one-tenth  interest,"  he  advised.  Finally 
this  was  accorded  also.  Tim  brought  the  money  in  one 
certified  cheque  to  Magdalena.  She  said  smilingly: 

"It  is  yours,  Teem." 

"You  sweet  thing!  Do  you  think  I  would  touch  your 
money  ?" 

He  spoke  eloquently  upon  the  expediency  of  having 
a  nest  egg.  Magdalena  became  almost  cross. 

"Teem,  you  must  do  what  you  please." 

"I  shall  invest  it  in  gilt-edged  stuff,  city  bonds  or  some- 
thing sound.  Cooke  will  know." 

"Ohe!     Senor  Cooke  will  know." 

This  had  become  a  mild  family  joke.  Cooke,  in  those 
days,  did  seem  to  be  omniscient,  but  Magdalena  smiled 
with  faint  derision  when  she  repeated  the  familiar  phrase. 

It  never  occurred  to  Tim  that  Cooke  did  not  quite  know 
all  that  was  passing  in  a  fond  woman's  heart,  a  woman 
constrained  by  circumstance  to  stand  idle,  looking  on  smil- 
ingly at  the  feverish  activities  of  her  Anglo-Saxon  husband. 

The  money  was  not  invested  in  city  bonds.  Cooke  took 
Tim  aside — out  of  the  crowded  office — when  his  advice 
was  asked.  He  spoke  tentatively: 

"You  have  this  fifty  and  almost  another  twenty  of  your 
own,  eh  ?" 

"As  near  as  no  matter." 

"Call  it  an  even  seventy  thousand  dollars.     If  I  put  up 
the  same  amount  of  money,  and  give  you  an  undivided 
half  interest  instead  of  a  quarter,  we  should  control  a  trd 
mendous  working  capital." 
188 


Santa  Barbara 

Tim  nodded,  taking  the  words  literally. 

"Yes,  just  one  hundred  and  forty  thousand  dollars." 

Cooke  laughed  jovially: 

"My  dear  Tim,  you  are  rather  dense.  I  purposely  used 
the  word  'control.'  Our  working  capital  would  be  some- 
thing over  a  million." 

Tim  gasped,  accustomed  as  he  had  grown  to  big  figures. 

Cooke  said  slowly: 

"You  ignore  our  credit." 

"Yours,  you  mean." 

"The  credit  of  the  firm  with  the  banks.  With  this  joint 
capital  in  hard  cash,  we  can  control  a  cool  million." 

"By  Jove !  it  makes  me  warm  to  think  of  it." 

"Well,  think  it  well  over.  I  leave  it  to  you  and  Magda- 
lena." 

Magdalena  was  told.  Tim  told  her  everything:  emptied 
his  mind  each  night  for  her  inspection,  a  process  known 
as  delivering  the  budget.  He  believed,  poor  fellow,  that 
she  was  deeply  interested  in  his  schemes,  whereas,  in  truth, 
she  was  interested  only  in  having  his  confidence. 

"Teem,  you  must  do  what  the  Sefior  Cooke  says." 

"But  it's  your  money,  Brownie,  and  I  hate  fooling  about 
with  it." 

"You  want  to  be  ver'  rich,  no?" 

"You  bet!" 

"Then  follow  the  advice  of  Sefior  Cooke.    He  knows." 

Next  week  a  new  deed  of  partnership  was  signed. 


in 

At  this  time  the  Santa  Barbara  Investment  and  Devel- 
opment Company  was  organized  by  Cooke,  and  Tim  became 
Honorary  Secretary.  Most  of  the  well-known  business 
men  in  the  town  subscribed  so  much  a  month  to  this  ad- 
vertising scheme,  for  it  was  nothing  else.  The  sole  object 
being  to  publish  printed  matter  about  Santa  Barbara,  and 

189 


Timothy 

scatter  the  same  broadcast  over  the  wide  earth.  Cooke 
wrote  articles  which  were  inserted  in  the  leading  newspa- 
pers. Cooke  spoke  of  these  as  ground-bait.  The  money  so 
collected  and  spent  brought  fish  to  the  net,  but  the  time 
came  when  such  expenditure  was  deemed  by  the  Board  no 
longer  necessary.  And  then  occurred  an  incident  which 
must  be  recorded,  because  it  brought  unlooked-for  prestige 
to  Tim,  as  Honorary  Secretary.  One  of  the  monthly  sub- 
scribers happened  to  be  a  rich  storekeeper,  absent  in  Eu- 
rope when  the  Company  was  doing  its  best  work.  He 
returned  to  Santa  Barbara  about  the  time  when  the  I.  and 
D.  was  wound  up.  Of  all  subscribers,  this  man,  Flynt, 
alone  stood  in  arrears  to  the  tune  of  some  two  hundred 
dollars.  Tim  tried  to  collect  the  money,  but  failed.  He 
reported  such  failure  to  the  Board.  James  Mackinnon, 
President  of  the  Board,  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Flynt  was 
a  notorious  pincher,  so  it  appeared,  and  Tim  was  ignorant 
of  this. 

Mackinnon  said  to  Tim : 

"Why  didn't  you  collect  this  subscription  each  month 
when  it  became  due?" 

"I  tried  to,"  said  Tim.  "Flynt's  cashier  had  no  authority 
to  pay,  and  asked  me  to  wait  till  his  chief  returned.  I 
thought  it  would  be  all  right." 

"And  it  isn't,"  said  Mackinnon  drily. 

Tim  flushed,  conscious  of  implied  censure.  Cooke 
laughed. 

"We  must  settle  the  matter  amongst  ourselves." 

"Obviously,"  replied  Mackinnon  in  the  same  dry  tone. 

At  this  moment  inspiration  descended  upon  Tim.  He 
said  excitedly: 

"Gentlemen,  I  feel  sure  that  I  can  screw  this  sub.  out 
of  the  old  fellow." 

"Not  you,"  replied  Mackinnon. 

Tim  said,  more  quietly : 

"I  feel  sure  of  it,  if  the  Board  will  give  me  a  free  hand." 

Mackinnon  said  curtly : 
190 


Santa  Barbara 

"In  my  opinion  we  have  wasted  valuable^  time  over  a 
small  matter.  It  is  notorious  that  this  man  repudiates  such 
responsibilities.  We  can't  go  to  law." 

"I  can  get  the  money,"  said  Tim  doggedly. 

Mackinnon's  grim  face  relaxed.  He  liked  Tim,  and  he 
was  not  averse  to  making  a  small  bet  when  the  odds  were 
in  his  favour. 

"A  box  of  cigars  you  can't!" 

"Done!"  said  Tim.  He  looked  round  the  table.  "Any 
gentleman  here  want  to  bet?" 

Three  responded  to  the  challenge.  Two  more  boxes  of 
cigars  and  a  dinner  to  the  Board  were  wagered.  Tim  took 
his  receipt  book,  and  tore  out  a  page.  Cooke  was  honorary 
Treasurer.  Tim  filled  in  the  receipt  and  asked  for  Cooke's 
signature. 

"After  you've  got  the  cash,"  said  Cooke. 

"No,  before.    That's  part  of  my  scheme." 

Cooke  signed  the  receipt. 

"I  shall  be  back  before  the  Board  breaks  up,"  said  Tim. 

He  sped  down  the  street  till  he  came  to  Flynt's  big  store. 
It  was  past  mid-day,  and  Tim  happened  to  know  that  at 
this  particular  hour  Flynt  held  a  small  court.  He  had  his 
hands  in  a  hundred  pies,  pulling  out  plums,  and  amongst 
his  parasites  some  pressman  was  sure  to  be  found. 

Tim  pushed  his  way  into  Flynt's  office.  Yes,  the  great 
man  was  enthroned  in  his  chair,  expounding  his  ideas  to  the 
crowd.  Tim  recognised  with  joy  a  reporter  of  the  Santa 
Barbara  Banner. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Flynt." 

"Glad  to  see  ye,  young  man.     Sit  down!" 

"Can't,"  said  Tim.  "I've  come  on  a  little  matter  of 
business  connected  with  our  Investment  and  Development 
Company." 

Flynt  frowned. 

"If  it's  about  that  two  hundred  dollars " 

"It  is,"  Tim  raised  his  voice,  speaking  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly. "The  Board  is  in  session,  Mr.  Flynt ;  I  am  empow- 

191 


Timothy 

ered  by  the  President  to  say  that  we  regret  having  pressed 
you  for  the  payment  of  this  small  amount  of  two  hundred 
dollars.  I  am  happy  to  bring  you  a  full  receipt  for  the 
subscription  in  arrears,  and  to  add  with  the  Board's  com- 
pliments that  had  we  known  or  even  suspected  that  you 
were  financially  embarrassed " 

"What,  what,  what ?" 

Flynt  jumped  up  purple  with  rage.  The  reporter  pricked 
up  his  ears :  his  nostrils  twitched  as  he  scented  a  "scoop." 

"Had  we  known  that  the  meeting  of  so  small  an  obliga- 
tion would  have  inconvenienced  you " 

"Inconvenienced  me?  What  the  h — 11  are  you  talking 
about?" 

He  snatched  the  receipt  from  Tim's  outstretched  hands, 
glancing  at  it  with  congested  eyes. 

"I  call  this  insolence.  You  tell  old  Mackinnon  that  with 
my  compliments.  As  if  I  wanted  your  dirty  money." 

He  pulled  open  a  drawer,  grabbed  a  cheque-book,  and 
wrote  out  a  cheque. 

"Take  that  back  to  the  Board,  and  mind  you  deliver  my 
message." 

Tim  smiled  sweetly: 

"I  shall  not  fail  to  do  so.    Thank  you." 

Tim  hurried  back  to  the  Board,  and  waved  the  cheque. 

When  he  explained  his  methods  of  drawing  blood  from 
a  flint,  there  was  rib-shattering  laughter. 

A  first  triumph,  a  score  off  his  own  bat!  Mackinnon 
never  forgot  this  little  incident.  From  that  moment  he 
treated  Tim  with  distinguished  consideration. 


IV 

What  makes  for  success  and  popularity  in  a  new  coun-> 

try  is  always  interesting,  so  no  apology  need  be  offered  for 

recording  another  of  Tim's  triumphs.     His  energies  were 

not  exhausted  by  business,  and  soon  he  told  Magdalena 

192 


that  he  must  find  some  form  of  physical  exercise  to  keep 
him  fit.  He  bought  a  punching  bag,  and  punched  it  dili- 
gently. And  he  boxed  with  a  retired  exponent  of  the  manly 
art,  a  veteran  of  fifty  fights.  This  retired  champion  per- 
suaded Jim  Ball,  the  New  Zealand  middle-weight,  to  give 
an  exhibition  in  Santa  Barbara.  Jim,  let  it  be  said,  had 
just  landed  in  San  Francisco  and  was  about  to  go  into  train- 
ing to  meet  Tarkey,  the  famous  slugger.  The  men  of  Santa 
Barbara  assembled  to  see  Ball  spar,  but,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, Ball's  manager  had  to  announce  regretfully  that  Jim's 
sparring  partner  was  indisposed,  having  eaten,  so  it  was 
whispered,  too  freely  of  baked  clams.  The  manager  hoped 
that  some  gentleman  present  would  take  his  place,  and  he 
ventured  to  name  one  Mr.  Brown. 

Loud  cheers  for  Mr.  Brown. 

Tim  jumped  up  laughing.  He  was  quite  ready  to  do 
his  best.  This  prompt  acceptance  of  a  challenge  delighted 
his  fellow  townsmen.  Tim  stripped  in  a  dressing-room,  and 
faced  the  mighty  man,  who  certainly  weighed  two  stone 
more  than  his  fighting  weight.  To  the  surprised  delight  of 
every  man  in  the  hall  Tim  held  his  own.  It  will  never  be 
known  whether  Ball  was  quite  sober,  but  suddenly  he  at- 
tacked Tim  savagely,  with  the  obvious  intention  of  knocking 
him  out.  Tim  defended  himself,  quite  aware  of  his  antago- 
nist's loss  of  temper,  and  taking  gamely  a  lot  of  punish- 
ment. But  his  jaw  set,  and  his  blue  eyes  sparkled.  Ball 
began  to  blow  heavily.  Somebody  at  the  back  of  the  Hall 
yelled  out: 

"Now's  your  chance,  Tim !" 

Tim  feinted  with  his  left  and  landed  hard  with  his  right 
upon  the  solar  plexus.  Ball  dropped  his  guard.  Tim  swung 
his  left  and  hooked  Ball  upon  the  point  of  the  jaw.  With 
the  same  blow  he  had  stunned  Heavy  Shoulders  long  ago. 
Ball  went  to  the  floor  and  remained  there. 

It  was  nothing,  a  victory  over  a  man  physically  unfit: 
but  Santa  Barbara  acclaimed  it  as  a  triumph.  Tim  became 
the  most  popular  citizen  of  the  town :  and  it  was  esteemed 

193 


Timothy 


a  privilege  to  buy  town  lots  from  him.  Cooke  said  after- 
wards : 

"As  an  'ad.'  that  lucky  punch  was  worth  five  thousand 
dollars  to  the  firm." 

And  the  Senor  Cooke  knew! 


Meanwhile  Magdalena  dissembled.  Tim  marked  no 
change  in  her,  but  a  wiser  than  he  might  have  been  un- 
easy. 

She  was  left  alone  for  many  hours  each  day  with  nothing 
to  engross  her  energies  but  Spanish  needle-work. 

She  missed  her  poultry  yard,  her  pots  and  pans,  all  the 
simple  occupations  which  make  for  the  happiness  of  a 
daughter  of  the  Latin  race.  Her  beloved  Tim  was  dearer 
than  ever,  but  he  seemed  to  be  striding  from  her.  Upon 
the  ranch  he  had  worked  hard :  and  so  had  she.  In  Santa 
Barbara  he  worked  harder:  and  she  was  constrained  to 
look  on,  a  passive  eye-witness  of  energies  which  seemed  to 
exalt  him  to  heights  leaving  her  in  the  depths,  for  pros- 
perity frightened  her. 

She  spent  some  happy  hours  with  her  kinswomen,  helping 
them  in  their  household  tasks,  and  she  took  a  wholesome 
joy  in  putting  on  the  pretty  gowns  which  Tim  made  her 
buy  and  wear.  Often  she  would  walk  to  the  picturesque 
Mission,  and  enter  the  cool,  grey  Church  wherein  she  had 
been  married  and  baptised.  On  her  knees  she  would  pray 
that  Tim  might  not  wander  too  far  from  her,  that  she  might 
have  once  more  a  home  of  her  own — and  a  child.  She  knew 
that  Tim  wanted  a  child,  although  he  never  said  so.  But 
again  and  again  she  would  mark  a  question  in  his  eyes 
which  was  never  put  into  words. 

A  new  "proposition"  was  stirring  Tim  to  his  centre,  a 
really  tremendous  affair.  One  of  the  vast  Spanish  grants, 
still  the  undivided  property  of  its  owner,  was  offered  to 
194 


Santa  Barbara 

Cooke  and  Brown  for  eight  hundred  thousand  dollars.  The 
partners  rode  together  through  park-like  lands,  through 
rich  alluvial  valleys,  through  brush  hills,  along  bubbling 
creeks,  past  gushing  springs.  Experts  predicted  that  ar- 
tesian wells  might  be  had  for  the  boring.  The  rancho 
seemed  to  be  the  natural  home  of  the  olive  and,  in  sheltered 
spots  above  the  frost  line,  the  orange  and  lemon. 

After  a  week  of  agonising  indecision  and  suspense,  for 
other  buyers  were  in  the  market,  Cooke  said  to  Tim: 

"Go  and  see  Mac." 

"You  must  do  that,  old  man." 

"No,  it's  your  turn.  He  likes  you  and  believes  in  you. 
Cut  along!" 

Tim  entered  the  bank  parlour  in  fear  and  trembling. 
Mackinnon  supposed  that  the  junior  partner  had  come  upon 
a  matter  of  small  importance. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Tim?" 

"I  want  to  borrow  six  hundred  thousand  dollars!" 

"Ah!     I  understand.     The  Santa  Margarita,  eh?" 

"Just  so." 

"Doesn't  it  scare  you?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I've  been  over  every  section.  As  you  know, 
the  owner  wants  cash." 

"Wise  man." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  sir  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  he  ought 
to  be  satisfied  with  a  fourth  in  cash,  and  a  note  and  mort- 
gage for  the  balance." 

"He  is  thinking  of  dry  years." 

"Years  ?  There  have  never  been  two  really  dry  years  in 
succession." 

"I  fear,  Tim,  that  precedent  in  this  case  is  no  guarantee. 
Mr.  Cooke  and  you  mean  business?" 

"We  do.  You  will  have  a  first  mortgage  on  the  property 
and  we'll  turn  over  all  proceeds  from  sales  as  before." 

"Um!  Six  hundred  thousand  is  too  large  a  sum  for 
us,  but  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  in  San  Francisco.  You 
are  prepared  to  pay  down  two  hundred  thousand?" 

195 


Timothy 

"Yes." 

"Call  again  the  day  after  to-morrow."  Tim  left  the 
Bank  much  exhilarated.  Contact  with  customers  had  added 
cubits  to  his  mental  stature.  Most  of  them  were  artlessly 
simple,  asking  the  same  questions  and  receiving  cut-and- 
dried  answers.  If  the  answers  happened  to  be  unsatisfac- 
tory, they  blinked  and  pulled  out  fat  pocket  books.  They 
meant  to  buy:  they  had  joined  the  great  procession:  they 
dared  not  lag  behind.  One  enthusiast,  who  proposed  to  sup- 
ply the  world  with  honey,  took  a  fancy  to  a  tract  of  land 
conspicuous  for  the  absence  of  bee-food.  When  Tim  men- 
tioned this,  his  client  said  grandiloquently : 

"Sir,  it's  my  opinion  that  the  very  air  here  is  full  of  sac- 
charine matter." 

It  may  have  been  so,  doing  business  became  very  sweet 
under  such  auspicious  conditions. 

After  some  exasperating  delays,  including  a  visit  to  San 
Francisco,  the  great  rancho  became  the  property  of  Cooke 
and  Brown.  Tim  told  Magdalena  that  a  fortune  was  in 
sight.  The  Sefior  Cooke  and  he  expected  to  make  a  million 
within  the  year.  Magdalena,  so  he  thought,  listened  to  him 
somewhat  perfunctorily :  but  about  a  week  later  she  threw 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  whispered : 

"I  have  news  for  you,  Teem." 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  can't  guess,  no  ?" 

He  held  her  at  arm's  length,  staring  into  her  eyes,  noting 
the  happy  sparks  of  sunlight  in  them,  noting,  too,  the  deeper 
flush  upon  her  brown  cheeks. 

"You  don't  mean ?" 

She  laughed  joyously,  nodding  her  head. 

"Yes — it  is  true.    Oh,  Teem,  what  do  you  say?" 

"Say?  By  the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  all  the  stars,  I'm 
the  happiest  man  in  the  universe!" 

"And  I  am  the  happiest  woman." 


196 


CHAPTER   II 

THE   CHERUB 


AFTER  this,  Tim's  life  seemed  to  gain  sequence  and  con- 
nexion.   It  ceased  to  be  fortuitous.    He  was  climbing 
steadily  a  mountain,  and  testing  each  foothold,  never  look- 
ing down,  and,  for  the  moment,  not  looking  up,  engrossed 
with  the  step  just  ahead. 

The  Santa  Margarita  had  been  subdivided,  and  was  sell- 
ing, but  shewing  the  land  to  intending  buyers  necessitated 
organisation  and  attention  to  a  thousand  details.  The  sur- 
veyor had  plotted  a  small  town  in  the  centre  of  the  ranch, 
which  lay  some  twenty  miles  to  the  north  east  of  Santa 
Barbara :  and  the  firm  had  built  a  fairly  comfortable  hotel. 
Magdalena  gripped  opportunity. 

"Mi  querido,  you  are  always  on  the  road  now?" 

"I  have  to  be." 

"No,  listen,"  she  spoke  very  coaxingly,  "listen  to  my  plan. 
What  time  would  be  saved  if  you  lived  on  the  Santa  Mar- 
garita !" 

"But,  dash  it !  I  couldn't  leave  you." 

"I  will  live  there  with  you  in  the  old  ranch-house.  I  shall 
be  ever  so  happy.  Teem,  it  will  be  another  honeymoon  for 
—me." 

"It  means  roughing  it,"  said  Tim,  "and  just  now " 

Magdalena,  thinking  how  dense  he  was  in  reading  her 
thoughts,  cuddled  up  closer: 

"You  foolish  Teem,  that  is  what  I  love.  I  want  some- 
thing to  do  when  you  are  busy  away  from  me.  I  shall  be 
ever  so  happy  in  a  home  of  my  own." 

197 


Timothy 

Tim  stared  at  her.  She  was  wearing  one  of  her  dainti- 
est frocks,  and  she  looked — what  indeed  she  was — a  crea- 
ture of  refinement,  sweetly  fragrant  of  lavender  and  orris- 
root.  Her  pretty  hands  had  become  white  and  soft.  She 
seemed  created  to  adorn  a  charming  drawing-room,  to  play 
the  part  of  hostess  and  mistress,  issuing  her  orders  and 
seeing  that  they  were  carried  out. 

He  exclaimed  sharply : 

"I  loathe  the  idea  of  your  messing  about  a  kitchen,  and 
all  that." 

A  gesture  implied  a  casting  to  the  void  of  manual  work. 

"But  you  did  not  loathe  it  at  Agua  Caliente,  no  ?" 

"Of  course  not."  For  the  instant  he  was  cornered,  but 
he  went  on  lucidly  enough : 

"We  had  to  do  it :  and  we  made  the  best  of  it.  Grin  and 
bear  it  was  rubbed  into  me  in  the  foc'sle  of  The  Cassandra. 
.  .  .  And  when  I  tramped  the  road  too,  by  George !  I  take 
it  that  we  should  make  the  best  of  things  if  we  were  poor 
again,  but  we're  not  poor.  We've  money  to  burn.  A  home 
of  your  own!  Do  you  suppose  that  I'm  not  thinking  of 

that,  and  longing  for  it !    And  what  sort  of  a  home  do 

I  see  you  in?  One  of  these  beastly  frame  houses  with  a 
couple  of  cheeky  servants?  Not  much!  My  thoughts, 
Brownie,  dwell  permanently  somewhere  in  Hampshire,  in 
or  near  the  New  Forest.  I  mean  to  buy  a  place  that  will 
be  a  proper  setting  for  you,  a  dream  of  a  place,  a  lovely 
old  manor  house,  in  lovely  old  gardens,  where  you  will  reign 
as  queen  over  a  decent  establishment." 

She  kissed  him  softly. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  think  of  that,  but "     She  sighed 

and  remained  silent,  gazing  at  him  wistfully. 

"But— what?" 

"Somehow,  my  Teem,  I  do  not  see  myself  over  there." 

"Not  likely,  considering  that  you've  never  been  out  of 
Santa  Barbara  county." 

She  resumed  her  coaxing  tone. 
198 


The  Cherub 

"Ohe !  It  will  be  nice  to  be  queen,  of  your  big  house,  but 
now,  Teem,  I  want  to  go  to  Santa  Margarita." 

"Because  you  are  an  unselfish  darling :  because  you  think 
it  would  help  me." 

"Santisima  Virgen  !    I  want  it  for  myself.    I  swear !" 

"All  right.     I'll  think  it  over." 

The  Senor  Cooke  furthered  Magdalena's  schemes,  and, 
possibly,  Mrs.  Cooke  divined  something  of  what  was  ran- 
kling in  the  little  woman's  mind.  Ultimately  Tim  and  his 
wife  took  up  their  quarters  in  the  Santa  Margarita  ranch 
house. 

Money  poured  in. 

ii 

Business  was  conducted  upon  simple  lines.  Tim  would 
show  land  to  intending  purchasers,  and  talk  fluently  of 
what  had  been  done  elsewhere  under  similar  conditions  of 
soil  and  climate,  adumbrating  what  could  be  done  upon  the 
Santa  Margarita.  He  had  the  patter  of  his  calling.  His 
experiences  before  the  mast  and  tramping  the  roads  were 
priceless.  He  knew  what  the  intending  settler  wanted  be- 
fore the  man  opened  his  mouth.  He  could  size  him  up. 
Cooke  had  drawn  a  form  of  contract  which  the  most  igno- 
rant could  understand.  Upon  signing  this  buyers  would 
pay  down  a  small  sum,  sufficient  to  bind  the  bargain.  Cooke 
did  the  rest.  As  a  rule  the  buyer  was  impatient  for  a  deed, 
delivered  when  a  one-third  payment  was  made.  A  note  of 
hand  for  the  balance,  secured  by  mortgage,  together  with 
the  one-third  payment,  was  duly  deposited  with  Mackin- 
non:  whereupon  the  particular  lot  sold  was  released  from 
the  original  first  mortgage  held  as  security  by  the  two 
banks,  local  and  metropolitan,  who  had  made  the  loan  of 
six  hundred  thousand  dollars.  By  this  time  more  than 
half  of  this  immense  sum  had  been  paid.  Cooke  and  Brown> 
in  fine,  stood  on  a  variegated  carpet  of  their  own  weaving, 
and  were  accorded  honorable  mention  in  Bradstreet. 

199 


Timothy 

In  this  selling  of  land  Tim  achieved  eloquence.  He 
beheld  men  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  dominated  by  his 
enthusiasm,  held  spell-bound  by  his  words.  It  would  be 
futile  to  record  these  speeches,  which  varied  infinitely. 

Relevant  to  this  narrative  was  the  effect  on  Tim  him- 
self. He  became  a  man  permeated  with  the  conviction  that 
he  might  accomplish  greater  and  more  enduring  triumphs 
than  those  which  now  engrossed  mind  and  body. 

He  became,  too,  impatient,  of  the  limitations  and  disabili- 
ties of  others.  One  day  he  happened  to  be  strolling  down 
the  main  street  of  Santa  Barbara,  when  a  Cheap  Jack  stand- 
ing on  a  hand  cart  was  selling,  or  rather  attempting  to  sell, 
notions  to  an  indifferent  and  derisive  crowd.  Tim  listened. 
Probably  the  poor  fellow  was  tired  or  ill.  He  mumbled 
on  till  Tim  felt  angry  with  him. 

"You  don't  know  how  to  sell  your  stuff,"  he  remarked. 

The  Cheap  Jack  glared  at  Tim. 

"Don't  I?  Mebbe  you  think  that  you  could  do  it,  Mis- 
ter?" 

"I'd  get  more  ginger  into  my  patter  than  you  do.  Here ! 
Come  off  it!  I'll  have  a  shot." 

To  the  delight  of  the  crowd,  who  remembered  Tim's 
victory  over  Ball,  the  Cheap  Jack  was  seized  by  Tim,  and 
deposited  upon  the  ground.  Tim  leapt  upon  the  hand-cart. 

"You're  a  lot  of  blooming  fools,"  he  shouted,  as  the 
crowd  cheered  lustily.  "And  half  blind,  too,  and  cold- 
blooded pagans  in  a  Christian  land.  Can't  you  see  that  this 
poor  devil  is  sick?  But  his  stuff  is  all  hunky,  just  what 
you  want.  Now — come  on!  Step  up  and  bid!  Be  lively1 
there !  Take  aholt !"  He  snatched  up  a  coffee-pot.  "What 
am  I  offered  for  this  patent  coffee-pot?  Brews  the  most 
delicious  coffee  out  of  beans  while  the  bacon  is  frizzling. 
Automatic,  everlasting,  and  just  the  notion  which  you, 
ma'am,  have  been  hunting  ever  since  you  led  that  lucky 
man,  your  husband,  to  the  altar.  Fifty  cents !  Thank  you, 
Ma'am.  Go  the  seventy-five — five — five!  Thank  you,  Sir, 
the  men  are  more  generous  than  the  ladies.  Hi,  you,  my 
200 


The  Cherub 

old  friend  at  the  back,  with  a  big  wad  in  your  pocket  which 
I  saw  yesterday.  Go  the  dollar!  I'm  bid  one  dollar  for 
an  article  which  will  pay  for  itself  in  a  fortnight.  One- 
twenty-five  !  This  is  a  Christian  land  after  all.  .  .  ." 

Everybody  cheered,  chaffing  Tim,  who  chaffed  back. 
When  he  descended  from  the  cart  it  was  empty. 

He  liked  the  Americans,  and  they  liked  him.  He  dressed 
and  spoke  like  a  Son  of  the  Golden  West:  and  there  is 
more  joy  in  California  over  one  Britisher  who  "catches  on" 
to  Western  ways  and  manners  than  over  ninety  and  nine 
blameless  tourists  who  carry  England  with  them  wherever 
they  go. 

Cooke  and  Brown  employed  Americans  to  work  for  them. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  "live"  clerks  in  the  office,  and 
two  individuals  outside,  known  as  "Fatty"  and  "Skinny." 

Fatty  was  a  bean-fed  product  of  the  county,  a  huge, 
smiling  red-faced  fellow,  full  of  humour,  and  a  shrewd 
judge  of  human  nature.  Skinny  had  lately  come  from  the 
mid-west.  He  drove  one  of  the  firm's  many  buckboards, 
and  suffered  from  dyspepsia  and  melancholia.  Tim  used 
the  pair  as  object  lessons,  illustrating  the  salubrity  of  the 
Southern  California  climate.  Some  of  his  customers  came 
from  the  ague-stricken  interior.  To  them  Tim  would  say : 

"Gentlemen,  kindly  look  at  those  men.  They  are  known 
in  Santa  Barbara  as  "Before"  and  "After."  The  stout  pink 
complexioned  champion  has  lived  in  this  town  for  forty 
years.  The  invalid,  who  can't  be  seen  when  he's  standing 
behind  a  telegraph  post,  has  just  left  bleeding  Kansas.  But 
he's  putting  on  weight." 

Such  talk  soaped  the  ways  whereon  some  sulky,  obsti- 
nate pilgrim  would  slide  to  the  signing  of  a  contract. 

in 

It  was  great  fun — while  it  lasted. 
Magdalena's  baby  was  born  on  the  Santa  Margarita.    Tim 
wished  her  to  move  back  to  the  Arlington,  but  she  refused. 

2OI 


Timothy 

Fortunately,  a  doctor  had  bought  land  not  far  from  the 
ranch-house:  and  he  proved  most  faithful  in  his  ministra- 
tions. A  Spanish  woman  came  as  nurse.  In  the  chicken 
corral  thirty  tender  chickens  were  penned  and  fattened  in 
accordance  with  Spanish  custom.  Magdalena,  like  her 
Mother  and  Grandmother  before  her,  intended  to  lie  in  bed 
for  exactly  one  calendar  month  and  eat  a  broiler  each  day. 
"Toujours  perdrix"  is  a  story  that  has  no  moral  for  the 
Spanish. 

To  Tim's  immense  relief,  the  confinement  was  not  severe, 
testing  the  husband's  fortitude  more  than  the  wife's.  The 
Doctor  heartened  him  up  before  the  event  by  saying  that 
women  of  the  Latin  race  had  a  comparatively  easy  time. 

"Why?"  asked  Tim. 

"Compensation,  perhaps." 

The  baby  was  a  big  fat  boy,  blue-eyed,  like  Tim.  Magda- 
lena lay  in  bed  perfectly  happy.  Her  cup  was  full  and  brim- 
ming over.  She  whispered  to  Tim: 

"Now  I  am  no  longer  jealous." 

"Jealous?" 

"Ojala !    How  jealous  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  other." 

"What  other?" 

Was  she  delirious  ? 

"Ivy's  boy — in  England." 

Tim  grew  hot  and  uncomfortable.  He  had  forgotten 
the  other.  But  it  was  his — his!  And  he  had  never  seen  it, 
this  waif  who  had  crept  into  life  by  a  back-alley.  He 
kissed  Magdalena,  and  held  her  hand  which  lay  soft  and 
limp  in  his  own.  He  was  transported  to  Lanterton.  He 
tried  to  envisage  Ivy  and  the  urchin  brought  up  as  a  Jel- 
licoe. 

"Fancy  being  jealous  of  that  poor  little  stray!" 

"It  has  passed." 

"I  am  ashamed  to  say,  Brownie,  that  I  had  forgotten  him. 
Now  that  I  am  prospering  I  ought  to  do  something,  if  any- 
thing can  be  done." 

"Do  you  want  him,  Teem?" 
203 


The  Cherub 

He  frowned,  considering  the  question,  seeking  to  answer 
it  honestly.  At  Agua  Caliente,  when  he  had  taken  for 
granted  that  Magdalena  would  bear  him  no  sons,  he  had 
speculated  often  and  long  upon  the  possibility  of  getting 
Ivy's  child.  But  he  had  dismissed  the  idea  as  impracti- 
cable. 

Did  he  want  the — other? 

No.  His  ripening  intelligence  co-ordinated  swiftly  the 
many  complications.  Tongues  would  wag  maliciously.  He 
said  with  decision: 

"I  do  not  want  him." 

"Sure,  Teem?" 

"Ab— solutely." 

Magdalena,  however,  perceived  with  bitter-sweet  emotion 
that  Tim  wanted  her  child.  He  hung  over  it  as  it  lay  asleep 
in  its  basinette:  he  helped  to  bathe  it;  he  talked  to  it  ab- 
surdly, when  he  might  have  been  talking  to  her. 

She  asked  herself  if  she  were  jealous  of  her  own  baby, 
dismissing  the  idea  as  ridiculous.  Suppose  this  fat  boy 
came  between  her  and  her  husband  ?  She  was  too  sensible 
to  encourage  such  alarms  and  excursions  into  the  future,  but 
they  flitted  into  her  mind  like  bats,  nasty  hybrid  creatures 
which  must  be  driven  out  of  all  well-ordered  rooms. 

Within  a  week,  an  appalling  thing  happened.  The  nurse 
was  summoned  away  to  the  bed  of  a  dying  mother.  It  was 
impossible  to  replace  her.  Tim  took  charge  of  the  baby. 
Not  during  the  day,  for  neighbours  were  kind,  but  at  night. 
And  the  little  wretch  slept  peacefully  most  of  the  day,  and 
remained  wide  awake  and  very  cross  most  of  the  night.  The 
Doctor,  much  to  Magdalena' s  rage,  said  that  the  child  must 
be  weaned.  Tim  bought  a  book,  entitled — "How  to  feed 
our  Baby,"  and  pored  over  it :  he  had  to  prepare  the  artificial 
food  at  night:  he  dared — reckless  man! — to  experiment. 
The  experiments  disagreed  with  the  Cherub,  for  so  Tim  had 
named  him.  He  howled  horribly,  twisting  up  his  tiny  legs 
when  colic  seized  him.  He  began  to  lose  his  nice  rolls  of 
fat :  a  faint  blue  tinge  crept  about  his  eyes  and  mouth.  Tim 

203 


Timothy 


was  in  despair.  Laborious  days  and  sleepless  nights  affected 
even  his  iron  constitution. 

Finally,  Mrs.  Cooke  arrived  and  dealt  drastically  with 
the  abominable  situation. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  but  this.  The  food  is  far  too 
rich.  A  tablespoonful  of  cream  in  each  bottle!  Good 
Heavens!  We'll  dilute  the  present  mixture  with  an  equal 
amount  of  lime-water." 

Within  two  days  the  Cherub  was  restored  to  high  health : 
and  Tim  slept  as  peacefully  as  his  son. 

But  it  had  been  an  experience  emphasising  the  tremen- 
dous appeal  of  weakness  to  strength.  Tim  loved  the  baby 
the  more,  because  for  ten  awful  nights  he  had  exhausted 
himself  in  tending  it.  And  again,  through  his  experiments, 
he  had  nearly  killed  the  atom.  That  reflection  was  humili- 
ating. Certainly,  he  had  a  lot  to  learn  about  babies. 


IV 

When  the  Cherub  was  five  months  old,  his  father  and 
mother  returned  to  Santa  Barbara.  The  big  rancho  was 
practically  sold  out,  and  a  settlement  followed  with  the 
banks. 

Cooke  and  Brown  found  themselves  with  a  huge  sheaf  of 
Bills  Receivable,  the  promissory  notes,  secured  by  mortgage. 
When  these  were  paid  in  full  there  would  be,  as  Cooke  had 
foreseen,  nearly  a  million  dollars  to  divide.  Meanwhile 
the  firm  was  short  of  cash  although  rich  in  what  is  termed 
collateral  security.  The  ordinary  commission  business  went 
on  as  usual,  but  competitors  had  secured  much  of  that,  be- 
cause Cooke  refused  business  unless  he  was  able  to  give  it 
personal  attention.  Tim  and  he  were  planning  a  bigger 
campaign. 

At  Magdalena's  entreaty,  Tim  rented  a  house  standing 
in  a  pretty  garden.  Two  Chinamen  were  engaged.  Tim 
wished  to  entertain,  and  Magdalena  raised  no  objections. 
204 


The  Cherub 

Many  distinguished  travellers  sat  at  the  round  table  in  the 
pretty  dining-room,  admiring  Magdalena  but  talking  to 
Tim. 

He  was  now  five  and  twenty,  and  able — so  he  put  it — to 
whip  his  weight,  some  twelve  stone,  in  wild  cats.  Magdalena 
had  become  slightly  matronly. 

That  winter  placed  Southern  California  upon  what  is 
known  in  revivalist  circles  as  "the  anxious,  seat."  Light 
rains  fell  in  November,  and  a  few  showers  in  December, 
but  January  ushered  in  a  terrible  series  of  cloudless  days. 

Rain  was  prayed  for  in  the  churches,  but  it  did  not  come. 
A  rain-maker  arrived  from  Texas,  and  burnt  much  powder. 
The  clouds  gathered  and  passed  on  withholding  the  precious 
moisture.  The  miseries  of  a  dry  year  became  inscribed 
upon  the  faces  of  the  people.  All  were  affected  by  the 
drought — except  the  rich  health-seekers,  who  rejoiced  too 
exuberantly  in  the  soft  sunshine.  Cooke,  however,  re- 
mained invincibly  optimistic. 

"This,"  said  he  to  his  partner,  "is  our  Heaven-sent  chance. 
There  is  a  slump  in  prices.  People  are  scared." 

"Don't  blame  'em,"  growled  Tim. 

"Buy  on  the  slumps,"  quoted  Cooke,  "We  must  get  hold 
of  every  acre  we  can." 

There  were  three  vast  tracts  of  land  to  the  south  of 
Santa  Barbara  upon  which  the  firm  held  an  option.  But 
a  high  price  was  demanded. 

"The  price  is  steep,"  admitted  Cooke. 

"So  is  some  of  the  land,"  said  Tim. 

More,  the  tracts  in  question  lay  in  a  zone  much  drier 
than  that  of  the  Santa  Margarita,  but  nearer  to  the  rail- 
road. Cooke  observed  thoughtfully : 

"A  definite  offer,  say  twenty  per  cent,  less  than  what  is 
asked  would  be  accepted." 

"Yes,"  said  Tim. 

It  was,  in  fine,  an  immense  speculation,  sufficient  to  give 
pause  to  the  most  daring.  Adequate  rains  meant  a  steady 

205 


Timothy 

rise  in  land  values :  drought  spelt  disaster.    Tim  and  Cooke 
talked  till  their  tongues  ached.    Then  Tim  said  curtly: 

"Damn  it  all,  let's  pitch  up  half  a  dollar.  If  the  eagle 
bird  is  on  top,  we'll  sail  in." 

"Right!" 

Tim  produced  the  coin  and  spun  it,  letting  it  fall  to  the 
ground.  It  struck  on  its  edge  and  rolled  beneath  an  immense 
desk. 

"More  suspense,"  said  Tim. 

The  desk  was  moved :  and  the  eagle  bird  met  two  pairs 
of  excited  eyes.  It  seemed  to  be  flapping  its  wings. 

"Bueno!"  said  Tim. 

"I  believe  in  prayer,"  murmured  Cooke,  "but  these  slack- 
ers don't  pray  hard  enough." 

The  offer  o.f  the  firm  was  accepted:  and  gangs  of  sur- 
veyors and  chainmen  went  to  work. 

And  then  the  rain  poured  down  copiously :  and  the  foot- 
hills became  translucently  green  and  ablaze  with  wild  flow- 
ers. A  great  syndicate,  operating  in  San  Francisco,  des- 
patched a  silver-tongued  representative  to  Santa  Barbara. 
He  wasted  no  words  at  first — 

"What  will  you  gentlemen  take  for  your  bargain  ?" 

"It  is  a  bargain,"  said  Cooke. 

"We  do  not  dispute  that.  The  rain  fell  in  the  nick  of 
time.  I  admit  that  we  were  suffering  up  north  from  cold 
feet.  I  am  empowered  to  offer  you  a  very  substantial  ad- 
vance on  the  price  paid  by  you." 

"What?" 

"Twenty  per  cent." 

"We  must  think  that  over,"  said  Cooke. 

Their  visitor  withdrew. 

"Well?"  said  Cooke.  "Cash  talks,  Tim,  and  we  haven't 
too  much  of  it." 

"I  have  that  half  4ollar.    I'm  keeping  it  as  a  relic." 

"Spin  it!  If  the  eagle  bird  turns  up  again  we'll  take 
the  cash,  and  a  holiday,  too.  England,  my  boy,  for  both 
of  us." 

206 


The  Cherub 

But  the  eagle  bird  did  not  turn  up.  The  silver-tongued 
orator  exhausted  a  copious  vocabulary.  Cooke  and  Brown 
refused  to  deal. 


One  day  a  tall,  well  set-up  Englishman  dressed  in  grey 
flannels  strolled  into  the  office.  The  office  boy  grappled 
with  a  name  not  too  clearly  articulated,  and  said  to  Tim: 

"There's  an  English  lord  enquiring  for  you." 

"An  English  lord,"  repeated  Tim,  "what  lord?" 

"I  missed  his  name." 

"Shew  him  in." 

The  tall  Englishman  sauntered  in,  gazing  about  with  that 
air  of  condescending  detachment  so  exasperating  to  Ameri- 
cans. He  sat  dov/n  and  began  to  fill  a  briar  pipe.  Tim 
took  a  dislike  to  the  man  before  he  had  spoken  a  word, 
recognising  and  resenting  his  easy,  patronising  manner. 
Tim  said  quickly: 

"I  am  sorry,  but  the  boy  missed  your  name." 

"I  am  Lord  Rokeby." 

Tim  looked  puzzled.  The  name  seemed  extraordinarily 
familiar.  Then  he  remembered  that  Daffy  had  married 
Lord  Rokeby's  son.  But  here  was  a  young  man  not  much 
older  than  himself,  perhaps  thirty.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
this  was  Daffy's  husband?  His  visitor  continued  in  rather 
a  bored  voice: 

"We — my  wife  and  I — are  at  the  Arlington.  I  heard  that 
you  were  an  Englishman.  And  so — I — er — dropped  in." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Tim,  but  he  wasn't.  Yes, 
this  was  Daffy's  husband.  Why  did  she  marry  him  ?  What 
a  commonplace  type!  And  she,  Daffy,  was  with  him,  not 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The  blood  rushed  into  his  face. 
Rokeby,  who  was  leisurely  filling  his  pipe,  continued : 

"Rather  disappointed  in  Santa  Barbara.  Disappointed  in 
California  generally.  Transition  period,  what?  People 
very  aggressive.  Furious  if  you  don't  crack  'em  up." 

207 


Timothy 

"I  like  them,"  said  Tim  crisply. 

"They  tell  me  you've  been  successful,  made  a  pot,  and 
all  that." 

"I  have  been  lucky,"  Tim  admitted  modestly. 

Rokeby  surveyed  him  with  an  approbation  which  he  might 
have  shewn  to  a  likely  hunter,  or  a  promising  retriever. 
Evidently  a  dog  and  horse  fellow,  this  husband  of  Daffy's. 
He  said  curtly: 

"You  look  a  bit  of  a  thruster." 

"Thanks." 

"I  might  invest  a  few  hundreds  here  if  I  saw  a  profit 
in  sight.  Can  you  shew  me  any  town  property?" 

"Certainly." 

"When?" 

"Now  if  you  like." 

Again  his  leisurely  lordship  favoured  Tim  with  an  ap- 
proving nod. 

"Right!     Come  on." 

Outside  the  office  Tim  pulled  himself  together.  He  must 
be  careful  not  to  shew  his  dislike  to  Daffy's  husband.  As 
a  member  of  the  firm  it  behooved  him  to  treat  possible  buy- 
ers with  courtesy.  Also,  he  desired  to  meet  Daffy.  His 
pulses  throbbed  at  thought  of  her.  Had  she  changed  abomi- 
nably, become  a  mannequin,  a  society  puppet?  Would  she 
recognise  him?  And  if  she  didn't,  should  he  reveal  himself? 

"I'll  drive  you  round  the  town,"  said  Tim. 

The  horse  in  the  light  buggy  pleased  Rokeby,  and  he 
said  so  when  that  gallant  trotter  struck  a  three  minute  gait 
upon  a  level  stretch  of  road.  He  asked  the  question  pat  to 
any  Englishman's  lips  when  he  meets  a  fellow-countryman. 
How  long  had  Tim  been  in  California?  Was  there  any 
trout  fishing  handy?  Any  bears  abroad  in  the  hills?  Tim, 
answering  these  adequately,  aroused  further  interest,  cul- 
minating in  the  inevitable: 

"Are  you  a  public  school  man?" 

"Yes." 

"Which?" 
208 


The  Cherub 

"Eton." 

"You  don't  say  so.    Same  here.    What  house?" 

"I  was  a  Tug." 

Rokeby  nodded.  Since  leaving  Eton  he  had  amended 
a  youthful  dislike  of  Tugs.  He  became  quite  friendly  and 
lost  his  condescending  manner,  ending  up  effusively: 

"I  say,  can't  you  dine  with  us?  I'd  like  you  to  meet 
Lady  Rokeby.  She  takes  what  she's  pleased  to  call  an 
intelligent  interest  in  local  conditions.  If  you  don't  mind 
being  bored  stiff  by  questions  about  these  damned  Missions 
and  olive  oil  and  Yankee  politics,  join  us  to-night." 

"With  pleasure." 

Soon  afterwards  the  talk  drifted  into  business  channels : 
and  it  was  forced  upon  Tim's  attention  that  this  ex-Guards- 
man was  the  son  of  a  famous  ironmaster.  Rokeby,  evi- 
dently, had  inherited  some  of  his  sire's  executive  ability. 
His  manner  became  offensive  again  after  he  had  inspected 
some  "eligible"  town  property. 

"The  boom  is  over,"  he  said  sharply.  "These  prices  will 
come  down  with  a  tumble.  They  go  stark  mad  over  here. 
Lord !  what  a  slump  there'll  be  presently.  And  it's  a  damned 
ticklish  climate.  And  the  settlers  know  nothing  about  farm- 
ing. They  starve  the  soil  with  repeated  wheat  and  barley 
crops.  You  take  my  tip:  it's  a  good  'un:  and  you  seem  a 
good  chap.  You've  made  a  pot.  Pick  it  up  quick,  and  go 
home.  There's  no  place  like  England,  and  never  will  be." 

"I  can't  go  home  yet,"  said  Tim. 

He  was  impressed  but  unwilling  to  admit  it.  Cooke  and 
he  were  agreed  upon  the  expediency  of  getting  out  on  the 
top  of  the  boom.  To  wait  for  the  slump  which  must  fol- 
low would  be  idiotic.  The  wisest  men  in  the  state,  the  big 
bankers,  the  publicists,  the  men  of  science,  predicted  seven 
fat  years  of  ever  increasing  prosperity. 

Rokeby  went  on  abusing  American  methods,  while  Tim 
interpolated  a  "yes"  or  "no"  when  such  monosyllables  be- 
came necessary.  He  was  thinking  of  Daffy.  Ought  he  to 
startle  her — as  he  might?  It  would  be  awkward  indeed 

209 


Timothy 

if  she  cut  him,  refused  to  sit  at  meat  with  him.  Finally  he 
dismissed  such  speculation  as  childish.  She  was  now  a 
woman  of  the  world,  able  to  confront  any  emergency  with 
a  cool  smile. 

Rokeby  and  he  returned  to  the  office. 

"Half-past  seven,"  said  Rokeby.  "We're  at  the  Arlington. 
I'll  promise  you  a  decent  cigar,  not  one  of  those  beastly 
green  weeds." 

Tim  watched  him  striding  towards  the  hotel. 

Daffy's — husband ! 

VI 

He  had  to  tell  Magdalena  that  he  was  dining  out.  She 
expressed  no  surprise,  assuming  the  dinner  to  be  a  matter 
of  business.  Some  capital  deals  had  been  consummated  in 
the  Arlington  dining-room.  Then  he  added  that  he  was  ex- 
pecting to  meet  an  old  friend,  Lord  Rokeby 's  wife.  Magda- 
lena's  suspicions,  or  shall  we  say  instincts,  were  quickened 
not  by  his  words  but  by  his  voice,  which  had  an  inflection 
of  tenderness  when  he  pronounced  Daffy's  name.  She  had 
never  heard  of  Daffy,  but  she  swooped  straight  to  the  con- 
viction that  Tim  must  have  liked  her  long  ago.  In  her 
soft  beguiling  tones  she  asked: 

"She  was  a  great  friend,  no?" 

"Daffy  Carmichael  was  a  little  girl  of  sixteen,  with  her 
hair  in  a  pigtail.  We  were  pals.  I  pulled  her  out  of  a  pond 
once.  She  may  be  cold  as  Greenland's  icy  mountains,  for 
she  heard  all  about  the  storm  which  blew  me  out  of  Little 
Pennington." 

"Ohe!    Was  she  very  pretty?" 

"Yes.    And  now  a  haughty  beauty." 

"She  won't  be  haughty  with  you,  Teem." 

"It's  like  this,  I've  half  a  mind  to  hide  under  the  name 
of  Brown.  She  simply  can't  recognise  me." 

"She  will,  if  she  liked  you.    Oh,  yes." 

"I'll  bet  you  she  doesn't." 
210 


The  Cherub 

"I'll  bet  with  you,  Teem." 

"Six  pairs  of  white  silk  stockings  against  a  pair  of  waders. 
Mine  are  worn  out." 

"Bueno !" 

"By  George!  If  she  doesn't  know  me,  I'll  say  nothing. 
I'd  hate  to  have  any  gossip  started  here." 

"Dios!  she  would  not  start  gossip." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  she  liked  you,  I  know.    You  will  see." 

Tim  arrived  punctually,  and  was  shewn  into  the  hotel 
drawing-room.  Several  people  were  present,  but  he  recog- 
nised Daffy  instantly.  She  stood  by  herself,  for  Rokeby 
was  not  in  the  room.  He  beheld  a  tall,  slender  woman  in 
green,  a  soft  pale  sea-green  which  suited  admirably  her  fair 
hair  and  delicately  tinted  skin.  Her  eyes  he  would  have 
recognised  anywhere,  because  of  the  fearless  look,  but  he 
noted  a  change.  The  candid,  direct  glance  had  become  more 
pervasive,  as  if  it  swept  wider  horizons.  It  was  almost 
panoramic.  He  divined  instantly  that  this  once  dear  crea- 
ture, so  familiar  and  so  strange,  searched  for  what  was 
big  in  life,  ignoring  perhaps  the  little  things  which  count 
tremendously  with  most  women.  He  noted,  also,  in  that 
first,  all-embracing,  hungry  stare,  that  her  face  revealed  pa- 
thos. He  knew  that  she  was  not  happy. 

He  came  forward  slowly,  having  dismissed  the  servant 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  room.  He  felt  reasonably  cer- 
tain that  she  would  fail  to  recognise  his  voice,  because  it 
had  deepened. 

As  he  approached  she  saw  him,  and  the  pupils  of  her  eyes 
dilated. 

"I  am  Mr.  Brown,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Heavens !"  she  exclaimed.    "You  are  Tim !" 

She  held  out  both  her  hands,  with  a  radiant  smile  upon 
her  lips. 


211 


CHAPTER   III 

SUNSHINE   AND   SHADOW 


ROKEBY  sauntered  in  some  three  minutes  later,  but 
much  can  be  said  by  two  eager  souls  in  a  short  space 
of  time.  Daffy  and  Tim  met  after  eight  years,  met  as  man 
and  woman,  and  yet,  for  the  moment,  there  was  no  re- 
straint. The  old  friendship  renewed  itself  spontaneously. 
Tim  became  instantly  conscious  that  Daffy  understood,  that 
she  wanted  him  to  remain  her  friend.  He  expected  re- 
serves, a  certain  coldness  which  might  be  thawed,  or  might 
not.  But  her  gracious  welcome  re-established  intimacy  upon 
the  former  firm  basis.  The  strength  of  that  intimacy 
was  something  above  and  beyond  sexual  attraction.  Always 
he  had  been  able  to  talk  to  Daffy  with  entire  frankness,  to 
be  himself.  Even  with  Magdalena,  except  perhaps  during 
the  months  just  after  their  marriage,  he  was  sensible  of 
reserves  on  both  sides.  His  affairs,  the  growth  of  an  im- 
mense business,  for  example,  with  its  roots  wandering  in 
many  directions,  inspired  no  interest  or  excitement  in  her 
beyond  the  fact  that  it  interested  and  excited  him.  When 
he  spoke  of  other  men's  achievements  her  attention  wan- 
dered. And,  often,  he  had  to  admit  that  he  did  not  quite 
know  what  Magdalena  wished.  She  dissembled  sweetly  in 
her  desire  to  please  him.  He  was  well  aware  by  this  time 
that  she  had  detested  the  life  at  the  Arlington :  and  it  vexed 
him  terribly  that  she  had  undergone  months  of  distress  quite 
unnecessarily. 

Let  us  hasten  to  add  that  an  increasing  knowledge  of 
essential  difference  between  a  dear  little  wife  and  himself 
212 


Sunshine  and  Shadow 

had  not  undermined  love.  He  counted  himself,  as  well 
he  might,  to  be  one  of  the  luckiest  of  men,  and,  tempera- 
mentally he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  bright  side  of  things. 

With  Magdalena,  too,  especially  of  late,  he  had,  almost 
unconsciously,  striven  to  appear  slightly  other  than  he  was, 
straining  upwards  towards  her  idealised  conception  of  him. 
She  believed  him  to  be  the  strongest  and  cleverest  of  men. 
Insensibly,  a  certain  pose  was  forced  upon  him. 

To  pose  before  Daffy  would  be  ridiculous. 

Daffy  said  at  once: 

"You  got  my  letter?" 

"Months  after  it  was  written." 

"Yes,  yes :  when  Mother  told  me  why  you  had  left  Little 
Pennington  I  knew  that  you  would  not  answer  it." 

"I  couldn't.     It  was  too  late." 

"My  poor  Tim,  what  an  experience  for  both  of  us!  I 
suffered  horribly,  and  so,  of  course,  did  you." 

"Yes,  it  has  passed.     I  suppose  you  loathed  me." 

She  smiled  faintly,  and  the  smile  was  maternal.  He  won- 
dered whether  she  had  children. 

"If  you  think  that,  Tim,  you  never  really  knew  me." 

"I  am  married,"  said  Tim.  "I  must  bring  my  wife  to 
see  you.  She  is  a  dear  and  a  sweet.  I  began  badly,  Daffy, 
the  luck  was  against  me :  but  Fortune  has  been  kind." 

"Here  is  Rokeby,"  said  Daffy. 

Rokeby  slowly  approached.  He  was  in  evening  dress, 
which  became  him  better  than  loose  grey  flannel.  He  had 
assumed  again  his  air  of  aloofness.  An  American  woman, 
standing  not  far  from  Tim,  said  to  her  companion: 

"Say— he's  IT,  isn't  he?" 

Tim  caught  the  whisper,  and  had  to  stifle  a  laugh.  In- 
disputably Rokeby  was  IT,  exasperatingly — IT!  The  fact 
that  his  assumption  of  superiority  was  quite  unconscious, 
absolutely  free  from  any  taint  of  pose,  and  also  ludicrously 
independent  of  mental  or  moral  or  physical  supremacy 
tickled  Tim's  humour.  It  was  funny  to  reflect  that  there 
were  thousands  of  Rokebys  sauntering  about  the  world, 

213 


Timothy 

imposing  their  mediocre  personalities  upon  others  whom 
they  were  pleased  to  designate  as  foreigners :  condescend- 
ingly bland,  and  impassive,  and  self-confident. 

"Hullo,  Brown!" 

Daffy's  eyebrows  went  up.  Brown?  She  was  expecting 
a  Mr.  Brown  to  dine  with  Rokeby  and  herself.  Tim  had 
announced  himself  as  Mr.  Brown.  But  she  had  held  out 
both  hands  to — Tim. 

"Ought  to  have  been  down.     Sorry!" 

Tim  explained  matters  fluently : 

"Lady  Rokeby  and  I  are  old  'friends.  She  knew  me  long 
ago  as  Tim  White.  I  ran  away  to  sea.  I  was  very  green 
in  those  days.  I  took  the  name  of  Green.  When  the  green- 
ness was  burnt  out  of  me  I  selected  Brown.  This  is  be- 
tween ourselves." 

Rokeby  nodded  imperturbably.  This  fellow  was  an  origi- 
nal, parti-coloured  dog.  Worth  a  dinner,  anyhow, 

"Come  on  into  the  dining-room." 

The  dinner  was  very  pleasant.  Rokeby  ceased  to  be 
superior  when  talking  with  an  old  Etonian.  He  exhibited 
no  surprise  when  his  wife  said  incisively: 

"You  mustn't  call  me  Lady  Rokeby,  my  dear  Mr.  Brown, 
I  shall  be  Daffy  to  you,  I  hope,  and  you  will  be  Tim  to 
me  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

Tim  laughed  gaily. 

When  he  reached  home  Magdalena  was  waiting  for  him 
with  the  familiar  smile  which  always  greeted  him. 

"I've  had  a  very  jolly  evening,"  said  Tim. 

"And  I  have  won  my  bet,  Teem,  no?" 

"You  have,  you  little  witch.  Lady  Rokeby  recognised  me 
at  once." 

"Ohe— I  knew  that." 

ii 

The  Rokebys  spent  a  week  in  Santa  Barbara.    Tim  and 
Magdalena  passed  many  hours  with  them.     Rokeby,  it  ap- 
214 


Sunshine  and  Shadow 

peared,  had  come  into  his  kingdom  shortly  after  marriage. 
He  had  left  the  Army  and  was  giving  more  or  less  atten- 
tion to  his  late  father's  business.  There  were  no  children. 
After  a  long  afternoon  upon  the  beach,  during  the  course 
of  which  Rokeby  paid  rather  marked  attention  to  Tim's 
wife,  Magdalena  said  with  a  wise  smile : 

"Lady  Rokeby  did  not  marry  for  love." 

Tim  betrayed  a  slight  resentment,  as  he  answered  quickly : 

"Daffy  is  incapable  of  selling  herself." 

"Dios !    I  do  not  say  that.    But  we  poor  women 

She  paused,  pursing  up  her  lips,  seeking  the  right  phrase 
in  a  foreign  tongue.  Tim  and  she  had  ceased  to  talk  Spanish 
when  alone. 

"Well?" 

"We  are  so  different  from  you  big,  strong  men.  We 
marry  for  many  reasons  which  seem  good  to  us.  If  it  is  for 
love  alone — bueno!  That  is  the  best  reason.  If  it  is  not 
for  love,  we  think,  perhaps,  that  love  will  come.  We  are 
so  curious,  too,  my  Teem.  We  lie  awake  and  wonder  what 
it  is  like  to  be  married.  And  if  we  cannot  love,  we  love 
to  be  loved.  Ay!  Ay!  And  often  it  is  so  dull  at  home. 
My  poor  cousins  say  that.  They  would  marry  to  escape 
from  Tia  Maria  Luisa  if  any  nice  man  ask  them.  You  call 
that  selling  yourself?" 

"No:     I  don't,  but " 

"Some  of  us  want  babies,  Teem.  I  think  Lady  Rokeby 
is  like  that.  When  she  was  alone  with  me,  and  I  shew  her 
Baby,  she  kneel  down  by  the  cot  and  cuddle  him.  And 
then  she  cry  a  little.  Mebbe  she  was  fond  of  Baby  because 
she  likes  you  so  much :  mebbe  she  wants  one  of  her  own. 
I  do  not  know." 

"Of  course  she  wants  a  son.  So  does  Rokeby.  So  does 
every  man  worth  his  salt." 

"Ay  di  mi !  I  am  sorry  for  them  both.  She  is  bored  with 
him :  and  he  is  bored  with  her.  It  is  sad." 

"It  is,"  said  Tim  shortly. 

Was  he  annoyed  because  Magdalena  had  guessed  the 


Timothy 

truth?  Not  a  complaint  leaked  from  Daffy's  lips.  Alone 
with  Tim,  she  talked  with  surprising  sympathy  of  his  life, 
not  her  own.  She  entered  with  zest  and  intelligence  into 
his  schemes,  pored  over  maps  and  pamphlets,  criticised  his 
methods,  rejoiced  over  triumphs,  and  predicted  more  to 
come.  And  yet,  great  and  swift  as  his  success  had  been,  she 
seemed  not  quite  satisfied  with  it.  Her  manner  and  expres- 
sion betrayed  her. 

He  perceived  that  she  was  leading  him  on,  an  old  trick! 
She  wanted  to  escape  from  California  upon  the  wings  of 
his  imagination. 

"And  afterwards?" 

He  sketched  for  her,  as  he  had  sketched  for  his  wife,  a 
home  in  England,  a  sanctuary  in  Arcadia.  Daffy  laughed, 
shaking  her  head. 

"She  is  charming,  your  wife,  but  a  solitude  a  deux !" 

"We  were  quite  alone  on  the  ranch,  and  as  happy  as 
larks." 

"But,  then,  you  had  not  tasted  blood.  Frankly,  does  this 
big  business  suffice  ?  Do  you  want  to  go  on  and  on  till  you 
own  and  subdivide  the  earth?" 

"We  shall  get  out,  of  course,  before  the  slump  comes." 

"If  you  can." 

"If  we  can.  And  then  Cooke  and  Brown  will  make  a  bee 
line  for  England." 

"I  follow  you.  Hunting,  shooting,  fishing,  mild  politics, 
a  seat  on  the  bench — what  else?" 

"Old  Daff,  you  worm  things  out  of  a  fellow." 

"There  is  something:    I  knew  it." 

"I  have  an  ambition :  I  think  I  have  always  had  it  It's 
bedrock,  cropping  out  continually.  I  had  it  as  a  kiddy,  as 
a  boy,  as  a  tramp.  It  is  stronger  than  ever  now  because 
it  is  buried  beneath  all  this  land :  but  it's  there,  Daffy,  and 
it  will  crop  out  again." 

"You  want  to  write." 

"Write?  Perhaps  I  could  write.  But  I  should  have  to 
set  down  life  as  it  is,  the  beastly  parts.  And  I  hate  all  that. 
216 


Sunshine  and  Shadow 

Zola,  for  instance,  makes  me  sick.    Daffy,  I  want  to  paint." 

"To — paint !"  she  repeated  softly. 

"Don't  laugh.  Colour  appeals  to  me  tremendously.  I 
have  never  spoken  of  it,  not  even  to  Magdalena.  She  knows 
that  I  am  always  drawing:  and  I  painted  a  lot  on  the  ranch, 
but  to  her  it  is  a  pastime.  There  are  a  few  fine  pictures 
in  private  houses  here.  They  say  nothing  to  her,  but  to 
me  .  .  ." 

She  regarded  him  curiously,  for  he  was  revealing  a  new 
Tim. 

"Try  to  tell  me  how  you  feel  .  .  ." 

"It  is  a  sort  of  religion."  He  went  on,  with  less  restraint. 
"What  is  religion,  Daffy?  We  had  rather  a  dose  of  what 
they  call  religion  in  Little  Pennington.  Cut  and  dried,  eh? 
Cut  and  come  again  describes  it  better.  It  was  the  real, 
right  thing  for  most  of  'em.  I've  come  to  see  that.  The 
mistake  they  made, — at  least  so  it  seems  to  me  .  .  .  was 
their  inability  to  realise  that  religion  should  not  be  standard- 
ised. You  can't  impose  the  same  formulas  upon  everybody, 
regardless  of  immense  differences.  What  nourished  dear 
Mary  Nightingale  disagreed  violently  with  me.  But  it 
would  be  impossible  to  make  her  see  that." 

"Tim:    I  have  been  through  this." 

"As  if  I  didn't  know!  There's  Magdalena.  She's  a 
dyed-in-the-wool  Roman,  accepts  everything,  questions  noth- 
ing. I  wouldn't  shake  her  faith  in  doctrine  and  dogma 
for  a  clear  deed  to  this  State.  I'll  tell  you  another  secret. 
Lord !  how  this  does  bring  back  our  heart-to-heart  talks  in 
the  old  Dell.  I  joined  the  Roman  Church  because  I  was 
terrified  of  upsetting  Magdalena's  artless  faith.  I  haven't 
had  the  pluck  to  tell  the  Vicar.  Magdalena  would  stew 
herself  into  a  fever  if  she  thought  of  me  as  a  heretic.  And 
to  me  the  Roman  Church  is  no  better  and  no  worse  than 
the  English  Church.  Each  is  cocksure  of  itself.  The  Non- 
conformists are  nearly  as  bad.  There  are  plenty  of  Calvins 
still  alive.  Religion  ought  to  be  something  bigger  than  cram- 
ming dogmas  down  unwilling  throats.  Well,  there  it  is." 

217 


Timothy 

Daffy  said  quietly : 

"But  this  religion  of  yours?" 

"I  am  clearing  the  way,  burning  the  brush.  I  left  doc- 
trine and  dogma  behind  in  Little  Pennington.  The  Pen- 
nington  code  was  behind  my  misdoings.  I  didn't  know 
it  then.  It's  coming  to  me  clearly  now.  I've  talked  with 
Cooke.  He's  taught  me  a  lot.  I  was  pitchforked  into  Eton 
without  a  word  of  warning.  When  I  slipped  out  of  Col- 
lege for  a  lark  I  didn't  know  what  interpretation  might 
be  placed  upon  such  an  adventure.  If  I  had  known,  I  should 
not  have  been  expelled.  Now  we  come  to  the  unspeakable 
offence.  I  swear  to  you  that  Ivy  Jellicoe  and  I  never  con- 
sidered consequences  until  it  was  too  late.  The  unstained 
code  again.  I'm  not  a  fool.  Had  I  been  taught  a  little 
physiology,  I  should  be  in  India  instead  of  here.  Thank 
the  Lord  I  am  here!  Then  I  found  myself  in  the  fo'csle 
of  a  sailing  ship,  and  I  began  to  get  my  bearings.  I  came 
aboard  compassless,  wild  with  rage  and  misery.  Sun, 
and  wind,  and  work  blew  all  that  bang  out  of  me.  And 
ever  since,  bit  by  bit,  day  by  day,  I've  been  reconstructing 
some  order  out  of  my  little  chaos.  I  haven't  found  what 
I  want  yet,  but  I'm  hunting  hard." 

"Poor  old  Tim!" 

"Don't  pity  me,  Daffy,  I  am  glad  that  I've  been  through 
all  this.  I  feel,  by  George,  as  some  of  our  old  timers  feel, 
when  they  listen  to  the  tourists  that  cross  the  Rockies  in  a 
Pullman  sleeper.  California  can  never  be  to  the  tourist 
what  it  is  to  the  pioneer.  Well — we  get  at  last  to  my  paint- 
ing. I  had  to  have  some  sort  of  religion.  I  went  aloft  and 
looked  at  the  sky  and  sea.  I  tramped  the  roads  half-starv- 
ing and  broken  in  health,  and  I  looked  at  the  eternal  hills. 
And  something — something  came  to  me.  How  am  I  to  de- 
scribe it?  Shall  I  call  it  a  sense  of  beauty?  Or  a  con- 
viction that  all  ugliness  passes  away.  I  have  seen  great 
forests  swept  by  fire.  The  beauty  blotted  out,  nothing  but 
blackened  stumps  of  trees,  and  smouldering  ashes.  And 
then,  a  year  or  two  afterwards,  a  miracle!  A  resurrection! 
218 


Sunshine  and  Shadow 

Or  a  heavenly  calm  after  a  terrifying  storm.  Daffy,  dear, 
these  experiences  made  me  see  the  colour  of  life,  its  infinite 
shades  and  gradations  of  tint.  I  think  of  myself  sometimes 
as  a  chameleon.  I've  tried  to  adapt  myself  to  my  surround- 
ings, to  absorb  the  colour  in  them.  I  could  never  be  white 
again,  or  green.  I  am  passing  now  through  the  brown  phase. 
There  will  be  others.  And  this  colour  which  I  have  ab- 
sorbed must  come  out,  find  expression,  but  not  in  words: 
they  are  such  feeble  things.  I  realised  that  when  I  tried 
to  explain  to  Magdalena  what  I  felt  about  a  great  picture. 
But  if  I  could  paint " 

"Tim,  will  you  show  me  some  of  your  drawings  and 
paintings  ?" 

He  groaned :    "They're  awful !" 

"Let  me  see  them,  please!" 

"All  right.    I  seem  to  have  jawed  a  lot." 

"It  interested  me  enormously.  I  think  as  you  do  about 
the  Little  Pennington  code.  It  did  not  adapt  itself  to  in- 
dividuals, only  to  certain  types.  There  was  no  elasticity, 
no — resiliency.  I — I  have  been  rolled  in  the  dust,  too." 

"Tell  me,  Daffy." 

"I  can't.  Some  day — perhaps,  when  we  are  older.  I  have 
been  through  the  mill." 

"It  has  ground  you — fine." 

"Don't  say  that,  Tim!  I  have  listened  to  you  talking 
about  yourself,  but  don't  ask  me  about  myself.  That  seems 
unfair,  but  even  in  the  old  days  I  used  to  keep  things  back. 
I  wonder  if  there  has  ever  been  perfect  confidence  between 
a  man  and  a  woman  ?" 

"I  wonder,"  murmured  Tim. 

Next  day  he  was  engrossed  by  business,  but  before  Daffy 
left  he  managed  to  find  time  to  show  her  some  of  his  draw- 
ings, and  a  small  landscape  painted  in  late  autumn,  an 
effect  of  atmosphere,  the  brown  foothills  seen  through  opa- 
lescent mists.  Daphne  said  slowly: 

"You  can  paint,  Tim,  it  is  in  you  to  paint  a  fine  picture. 

219 


Timothy 


I  say  it  with  little  technical  knowledge,  but  with  all  the 
conviction  of  a  woman's  instinct." 


HI 

The  Rokebys  went  on  to  Japan,  leaving  a  gap  which  was 
filled  with  hard  work.  The  suitable  subdividing  of  the  new 
ranches  exacted  meticulous  attention,  because  they  included 
much  rough  land.  Jam  had  to  be  nicely  apportioned  to 
bread.  Advertising,  moreover,  became  a  problem  difficult 
to  resolve.  The  old  methods  were  inadequate.  The  coun- 
try was  glutted  with  printed  matter:  and  settlers  were  be- 
ginning to  discover  that  even  sworn  statements  may  prove 
sadly  misleading.  In  the  fall,  when  the  pilgrims  from 
East  and  mid- West  filled  the  trains,  Tim  organised  vast 
barbecues.  A  brass  band  was  engaged  for  these  festive 
occasions.  Upon  the  eve  of  the  first  barbecue  a  somewhat 
seedy  but  plausible  gentleman  sought  a  private  interview 
with  Cooke  and  Brown.  He  revealed  himself  as  an  advance 
agent  connected  with  a  certain  unscrupulous  journal.  He 
told  Cooke  jauntily  that  a  bright  "send-off"  could  be  se- 
cured for  a  thousand  dollars.  Cooke  listened  blandly. 

"You  propose  to  boom  us?" 

"Sky-high,  Mr.  Cooke." 

"For  a  thousand  dollars?" 

"Yes,  Sir.     A  refusal  would  hostilise  strong  interests." 

"Tim,"  said  Cooke,  in  the  same  bland  tone,  "kindly  tell 
this  gentleman  what  we  think  of  him." 

Tim  could  be  trusted  to  rise  to  such  occasions.  He  shewed 
his  teeth  in  a  wide  grin,  as  he  said : 

"You  are  very  kind.  We  think  that  this  is  a  blackmail- 
ing scheme.  Take  your  choice  of  the  door  or  the  window." 

"You'll  be  mighty  sorry  for  this." 

"You  prefer  the — window?" 

"We'll  make  you  two  Britishers  squeal." 

Tim  rose  swiftly :  the  seeker  after  "graft"  fled. 
220 


Sunshine  and  Shadow 

Cooke  laughed,  but  he  said  gravely  enough : 

"We're  up  against  an  unscrupulous  gang.  It  was  bound 
to  come  sooner  or  later." 

"What  can  they  do?" 

"You'll  see.  The  country  is  getting  rotten  with  this  sort 
of  thing.  Shooting  used  to  keep  it  down,  but  shooting 
seems  to  be  going  out  of  fashion,  more's  the  pity." 

"If  he  is  going  to  hurt  us,  I  wish  I'd  hurt  him." 

"He  would  have  squealed  before  he  was  hurt." 

Soon  afterwards  a  series  of  articles  began  to  appear, 
cleverly  attacking  the  firm's  methods.  Cooke  consulted  a 
famous  solicitor  who  was  also  a  barrister,  and  an  expert 
upon  libel  law.  He  counselled  inaction.  Action,  he  pointed 
out,  would  be  very  expensive,  and  the  issue  doubtful.  On 
his  advice  the  barbecues  were  abandoned. 

And  then  trouble  began  with  some  of  the  men  who  held 
land  under  contract,  men  who  had  paid  a  small  sum  to  bind 
a  bargain,  and  then  broken  the  spirit  of  that  bargain  by 
doing  nothing,  holding  unimproved  land  for  a  rise  in  price. 

"Things  are  not  quite  so  rosy,"  said  Cooke.  "Somebody 
is  behind  these  malcontents." 

Nevertheless  the  sales  continued. 

By  this  time  the  business  had  become  exceedingly  com- 
plicated. Lack  of  ready  money  is  at  the  root  of  most  mun- 
dane evils,  and  although  we  may  assume  as  an  axiom  that 
credit  is  the  life-blood  of  a  new  country,  still  even  credit 
must  have  gold  behind  it,  as  the  enthusiastic  supporters  of 
Mr.  Bryan  discovered.  The  banks  throughout  the  State 
were  getting  nervous.  They  had  financed  this  immense  land 
boom,  accepting  as  security  innumerable  mortgages.  The 
more  conservative  pointed  out  to  their  respective  boards 
that  banking  was  not  quite  on  all  fours  with  the  real-estate 
business.  Mortgages  had,  occasionally,  to  be  foreclosed. 
Bankers  found  themselves  metamorphosed  in  a  night  into 
farmers  and  horticulturists.  Probably  pressure  was  brought 
to  bear  from  the  East  and  from  Europe.  The  fact  remains, 
when  we  survey  the  history  of  this  period,  that  money  be- 

221 


Timothy 

came  dear  long  before  the  dry  seasons  came.     Cooke  and 
Brown  held  sheafs  of  notes  which  represented  gold,  but  the 
banks  wanted  more  collateral  security  and  offered  in  return 
less  gold. 
And  the  running  expenses  of  our  firm  were  enormous. 


IV 

The  Cherub  was  now  a  two-year-old,  and  frisky  for  his 
yeajs.  Tim  adored  him.  This  may  surprise  some  of  the 
readers  of  this  chronicle,  for  Tim  has  been  presented  so  far, 
as  intensely  preoccupied  with  his  own  development,  a  healthy 
victim  of  ambitions  which  preyed  upon  every  able-bodied 
man  in  the  community.  As  a  father  we  do  not  envisage 
him  clearly.  It  is  even  doubtful  whether  Magdalena  quite 
realised  what  Tim  felt  about  his  small  son,  or  how  large 
he  bulked  in  Tim's  future.  The  normal  father  hardly  ever 
talks  of  his  children,  if  he  is  much  engrossed  in  working 
for  them.  But  Tim  regarded  his  boy  as  part  of  himself, 
clay  to  the  hand  of  a  potter.  The  Cherub  was  to  be  an 
Etonian  and  an  Oppidan,  making  none  of  his  sire's  blun- 
ders. He  was  to  develop  along  natural  lines,  no  "cribbing 
and  confining/'  no  labelling,  no  cotton  wool,  a  son  of  the 
West  who  would  profit  by  the  wisdom  of  the  East. 

The  child's  beauty  appealed  to  Tim  immensely.  The 
little  fellow  seemed  to  have  taken  from  his  parents  what 
was  most  admirable  in  each.  He  had  Tim's  strength,  and 
Magdalena's  sweetness  of  disposition. 

But  he  had  inherited  something  else,  that  dreadful  taint 
which  has  been  such  a  scourge  to  the  children  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  and  Latin  countries.  The  discovery  of  this  crept 
stealthily  upon  Tim:  it  came  as  the  fog  comes  from  the 
Pacific,  stealing  across  the  landscape  in  filmy  mists,  height- 
ening its  beauty  for  a  time,  and  then  slowly  blotting  out 
all  colour  and  form,  a  dense  cloud  of  impenetrable  gloom. 

A  cold  in  the  head  drifted  to  the  chest.  The  Cherub 
222 


Sunshine  and  Shadow 

began  to  cough.  Treatment  stopped  the  cough.  The  child's 
beauty  was  strangely  enhanced  for  a  few  months.  His 
eyes  sparkled  with  ethereal  light,  upon  his  round  cheeks 
glowed  a  deeper  rose,  his  lips  were,  a  vivid  carmine.  The 
health-seekers  would  stop  to  speak  of  him  to  Magdalena 
when  mother  and  child  took  the  air  together. 

"What  a  cherub!"  they  would  remark. 

Magdalena,  beaming  with  pride,  would  reply: 

"Ohe— we  call  him  that." 

That  summer  was  particularly  dry.  The  ocean  fogs  lay 
far  out  at  sea,  kept  at  bay  by  the  land  breeze  which  blew 
hot  and  dry  from  the  torrid  valleys  beyond  the  Santa 
Lucia  mountains.  The  fine  white  dust  settled  everywhere, 
inflaming  sensitive  membranes,  driving  housewives  to  de- 
spair and  thirsty  men  to  drink. 

The  Cherub  began  to  cough  again.  Tim  was  anxious, 
but  a  doctor,  who  was  ignorant  of  Magdalena's  family, 
reassured  him.  Tim's  own  throat  was  sore  and  inflamed. 

"After  the  rains  the  cough  will  go." 

Magdalena  hugged  this  comfort  to  her  bosom.  But,  sud- 
denly, out  of  some  pigeonhole  of  memory,  fluttered  a  hide- 
ous apprehension. 

"Teem,"   she   said,   clutching   him,   "I   am    frightened." 

"Frightened?" 

"I  remember  Dolores,  my  sister.  She  die  when  I  was 
eight  years  old.  I  see  her.  Ay  de  mi !  And  to-day  I  hear 
her." 

"You  heard  her?" 

"Baby  cough  just  like  Dolores." 

Tim  kissed  her  wet  eyes,  quoting  the  doctor,  reassuring 
her  that  coughs  were  all  alike,  but  Magdalena  shook  her 
head. 

"Baby  will  go,  like  Dolores.    Yes,  I  know." 

"Never!"  said  Tim  vehemently. 


223 


CHAPTER   IV 

DROUGHT 


EARLY  the  next  morning  on  his  way  to  the  office,  Tim 
called  upon  the  Doctor,  who  happened  to  be  the  per- 
sonal friend  rather  than  the  medical  attendant  of  a  family 
that  seldom  needed  his  services.  Tim  and  he  often  fished 
and  shot  quail  in  company,  and  probably  there  is  nothing 
in  this  world  which  brings  a  couple  of  men  so  intimately 
together  as  camp  life  in  a  new  country. 

Wason  was  a  bachelor,  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty.  In- 
variably, Tim's  intimate  friends  had  been  men  older  than 
himself.  They  were  attracted  by  youth  and  high  spirits. 
He,  in  his  turn,  had  a  hankering  for  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience. Wason  was  a  thin  tall  fellow,  very  active  physi- 
cally and  mentally,  and  a  New  Englander  who  had  been 
in  Santa  Barbara  about  two  years.  He  possessed  independ- 
ent means,  interfering  but  little  with  the  old  practitioners, 
devoting  time  and  money  to  bacteriology. 

Tim's  face  alarmed  him. 

"Anything  wrong?" 

"My  wife  is  terrified,  Wason.  She  believes  that  the 
Cherub  has  consumption.  I  never  told  you,  but  Magda- 
lena's  brothers  and  sister  died  of  consumption." 

Wason  looked  as  grave  as  Tim. 

"What  on  earth  made  you  hide  that  from  me?" 

"I  had  forgotten  it,  so  had  she.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  it  makes  much  difference?" 

"Yes,"  said  Wason  curtly.  "What  we  call  a  predisposi- 
224 


Drought 


tion  to  the  disease  counts  enormously.    Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  they  all  went  that  way  ?" 

"All." 

Wason  groaned. 

"What  a  damnable  scourge  it  is!  However,  let  us  hope 
that  this  is  a  false  alarm.  You  two  are  such  healthy  people 
that  I  never  suspected  any  taint.  Has  the  boy  lost  weight  ?" 

"A  little." 

"Any  night  sweats?" 

"No,  but  the  cough  keeps  him  awake." 

"I'll  see  the  child  at  once,  and  let  you  know." 

"Thanks." 

Tim  went  on  to  the  office,  where  he  found  Cooke,  to  whom 
he  communicated  his  fears.  The  senior  partner  cheered 
him  up. 

"Look  at  me.  I  left  England  because  the  apex  of  both 
lungs  was  affected.  And,  to-day,  I'm  as  sound  as  a  bell. 
I  don't  believe  the  boy  has  it,  but  if  there  is  a  little  trouble 
it  will  yield  to  treatment  in  this  climate." 

Tim  tried,  not  very  effectively,  to  concentrate  his  mind 
upon  business.  Two  hours  later  Wason  telephoned  to  him 
to  call  at  his  house.  One  glance  at  Wason's  face  was  suf- 
ficient. Tim  gasped  out: 

"Magdalena  was  right?" 

"There  is  some  inflammatory  consolidation  of  the  right 
lung.  It  would  be  criminal  on  my  part  to  make  light  of 
it  to  you,  although  I  have  calmed  the  poor  little  mother. 
But  I  am  afraid  the  case  may  prove  acute.  There  has 
been  a  change  since  I  last  saw  the  child." 

Tim  sank  into  a  chair,  haggard  and  trembling.  Wason 
spoke  incisively,  but  with  great  sympathy. 

"I  must  explain  what  I  mean  by  acute.  The  progress  of 
phthisis,  as  a  general  rule,  is  slow  and  chronic,  particularly 
with  adults,  but  with  children,  where  there  is  predisposi- 
tion and  exciting  inflammatory  causes,  the  ravages  are 
swift." 

"Galloping   consumption." 

225 


Timothy 


"It  has  been  well  named.  We  are  confronted  with  that 
possibility." 

"Oh,  my  God!" 

"Tim,  I  shall  fight  for  this  child  as  if  he  were  my  own !" 

"I  know  that." 

"And  now  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  something  else. 
Mrs.  Brown  will  insist  upon  nursing  her  child." 

"Of  course." 

"I  hold  tuberculosis  to  be  infectious  when  there  is  any 
latent  taint  in  the  system.  Opinion  is  divided — it  is  still 
raging — but  Koch's  experiments  have  convinced  me,  apart 
from  my  own  researches.  I  do  not  think  that  a  perfectly 
healthy  person  would  be  quite  safe  if  constantly  exposed." 

"You  are  not  suggesting  that  Magdalena  should  be  sep- 
arated from  the  Cherub?" 

Wason  remained  silent.    Tim  continued: 

"She  will  refuse." 

"I  fear  so." 

"I  know  it." 

"I  had  to  tell  you.  For  the  rest,  you  must  do  what  you 
can.  I'll  watch  her  as  closely  as  the  boy." 

"I'll  take  them  anywhere — anywhere." 

"No :  the  climate  here  is  equable.  Special  symptoms  must 
be  dealt  with.  Tim,  you  must  trust  me." 

"I  do — I  do,  but  you  have  scared  the  very  life  out  of  me." 

"I  had  to  make  you  realise  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 
Co-operate  with  me,  fight  with  me  against  little  stupidities 
and  negligences.  We  must  guard  against  changes  of  tem- 
perature, fatigue,  exposure,  dietetical  indiscretions." 

Wason  continued,  explaining  his  method  of  treatment, 
avoiding,  as  far  as  possible,  the  pathology  of  the  case. 

Tim  listened,  sucking  hope  from  Wason's  authoritative 
tones,  but  alone,  with  the  impending  horror  of  meeting 
Magdalena,  his  fortitude  deserted  him.  He  went  for  a  walk, 
grappling  with  his  fears,  conquering  them  by  force  of  will. 
But  as  he  strode  back  to  his  own  house,  he  met  a  rich 
health-seeker,  taking  air  and  sunshine  in  a  nurse's  com- 
226 


Drought 

pany.  One  of  the  doomed,  he  accosted  Tim  cheerily,  and 
spoke  of  the  improvement  in  his  condition.  Emaciated, 
racked  by  cough,  a  victim  of  other  complications,  he  was 
crawling  along,  leaning  heavily  upon  his  nurse's  arm.  And 
yet  the  strange  buoyancy  which  characterises  his  malady, 
the  spes  phthisica,  sustained  him. 

"I'm  getting  along  fine,  ain't  I,  Nurse?" 

"That  you  are." 

Tim  felt  sick.  He  reached  home  to  find  the  Cherub  play- 
ing with  Magdalena  in  the  garden.  He  looked  the  picture 
of  health  as  he  ran  towards  his  father.  Tim  picked  him  up, 
kissed  him,  and  turned  to  face  a  smiling  mother. 

"Dr.  Wason  has  been  here.  He  was  so  kind.  And  very 
angry  with  me  for  being  frightened." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Tim:  and  the  laugh  with  which  he  fur- 
ther reassured  her  was  not,  perhaps,  the  least  of  many 
achievements. 

ii 

Six  months  later  the  boy  was  dead. 

All  the  premonitory  symptoms  became  intensely  aggra- 
vated. In  the  end  the  child  died  of  exhaustion  and  emacia- 
tion. A  tiny  skeleton  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  cemetery. 
Husband  and  wife  were  affected  differently:  Tim  choked 
down  his  emotion  with  grim  despair;  Magdalena  gave  it 
expression  in  prolonged  fits  of  passionate  weeping. 

Finally  Tim  took  her  away  to  Honolulu.  The  sea  voy- 
age, going  and  returning,  restored  something  of  her  former 
equanimity,  but  she  looked  ten  years  older  and  much 
thinner. 

Tim  went  back  to  the  office. 

Cooke  talked  in  his  usual  optimistic  vein,  but  Tim  per- 
ceived clearly  enough  that  his  partner  had  become  anxious. 
The  contract-holders  were  giving  more  and  more  trouble. 
Men  who  held  land  and  refused  to  improve  it  were  in 
arrears  with  their  payments.  To  evict  them  meant  the  ad- 

227 


Timothy 

vertising  of  an  abominable  situation :  not  to  evict  them  was 
a  tacit  confession  of  weakness,  the  encouragement  of  other 
malcontents,  and  an  acceptance  of  a  slap  in  the  face  from 
their  enemies,  who  insidiously  instigated  the  worst  offenders. 
Cooke  concluded  cheerfully: 

"It  will  be  O.  K.  if  we  have  plenty  of  rain." 

Everybody  made  this  remark  several  times  a  day.  All 
members  of  the  community  were  affected.  Store-keepers 
who  financed  the  small  farmers  stared  helplessly  at  the  blue 
skies:  bankers  stared  as  helplessly  at  their  ledgers,  and 
wished,  too  late,  that  they  had  conducted  their  business 
upon  more  conservative  lines.  The  cattlemen,  sheepmen, 
and  big  wheat  farmers  faced  disaster  with  blanching  lips. 
Nevertheless  public  opinion  decided  that  Southern  Califor- 
nia could  weather  one  dry  season,  long  overdue  according  to 
the  statisticians.  Cooke  said: 

"We  shall  just  scrape  through." 

The  dry  year  came. 

Perhaps  the  hardest  thing  to  bear  was  the  jubilant  croak- 
ing of  the  Silurians  and  mossbacks,  the  fortunate  few  who 
had  remained  passive  during  years  of  feverish  activity,  who 
had  risked  nothing,  sitting  indolently  upon  what  they  pos- 
sessed, predicting  disaster  to  their  enterprising  brethren. 

This  was  their  hour  of  triumph,  and  they  made  the 
most  of  it. 

The  banks  behaved  admirably,  standing  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der in  solid  phalanx,  but  all  were  strained  to  breaking  point. 
The  political  situation  aggravated  their  difficulty  in  carry- 
ing the  dead  weight  of  impecunious  customers.  The  Popo- 
crats  and  Silverites  brayed  their  plausible  doctrines  from 
every  street  corner.  To  be  a  "gold-bug"  in  those  unhappy 
days  was  to  invite  personal  assault. 


in 

During  these  arid  months,  the  work  in  the  office  dwin- 
dled to  the  perfunctory  keeping  of  accounts.     One  clerk 
228 


Drought 

sufficed:  Fatty  and  Skinny  were  dismissed:  outside  ex- 
penses were  pared  to  the  irreducible  minimum. 

Cooke  and  Tim  talked  together,  for  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.  Insensibly  Tim  absorbed  Cooke's  philosophy. 
Sometimes  Wason  would  join  them.  Cooke  was  saturated 
with  the  agnosticism  of  Huxley  and  Ingersoll,  and  too  busy 
to  work  out  problems  other  than  the  conduct  of  concrete 
affairs,  such  as  the  sale  and  subdivision  of  land,  the  tactful 
handling  of  customers,  and  the  adjustment  of  conflicting 
interests. 

Abstractions  bored  him.  He  was  temperamentally  a 
hedonist  albeit  a  stickler  for  law  and  order  if  his  own  pleas- 
ures were  threatened.  He  lived  joyously  in  the  present, 
liked  a  sound  glass  of  wine  and  a  good  cigar,  and  could 
thoroughly  enjoy  both  whether  it  rained  or  not. 

He  hated  poverty  and  vice  because  anything  disagree- 
able affected  his  own  comfort.  He  was  scornfully  derisive 
of  crooked  dealing,  because  he  was  profoundly  of  opinion 
that  it  paid  to  be  honest.  Wason's  New  England  conscience 
— he  was  the  son  of  a  Presbyterian  minister — constrained 
him  to  defend  doctrines  which  Cooke  pronounced  obsolete 
and  untenable. 

"One  must  have  a  standard,  Cooke." 

"Let  the  law  of  the  land  provide  it." 

"That  law  is  built  upon  the  solid  rock  of  a  higher  law, 
God's  law,  the  Ten  Commandments." 

"Oh,  Moses !  There's  an  amusing  story  of  Ingersoll 

and  Moses.  Have  you  heard  it  ?" 

"More  than  once  from  you.  I  hate  argument  bolstered 
up  by  anecdote.  It  comes  to  this,  if  there  is  no  God,  and 
no  hereafter,  and  no  Law  higher  than  what  I  suppose  you 
call  the  coagulated  wisdom  of  centuries,  what  is  to  restrain 
a  man  from  committing,  let  us  say,  murder,  provided  he  is 
clever  enough  not  to  be  found  out?  I  know  enough  to 
kill  you,  if  I  wanted  to  do  it,  without  running  the  slightest 
risk  of  detection.  I  could  inoculate  you  with  cholera 
morbus,  attend  you  as  your  physician,  sign  your  death  cer- 

229 


Timothy 

tificate  and  collect  my  fees  from  your  estate.  What  pre- 
vents me?  My  conscience.  My  conviction  that  I  should 
be  arraigned  and  judged  guilty  hereafter." 

"Do  you  affirm  that  Huxley  was  conscienceless?" 

"Certainly  not.  But  the  fact  that  Huxley  and  Tyndall  and 
Bradlaugh  were  men  who  lived  useful  and  blameless  lives 
proves  nothing.  They  obeyed  the  standard  which  each 
adopted  for  himself." 

"Of  course." 

"But  if  each  man  is  to  be  a  law  unto  himself,  for  that  is 
what  it  comes  to  ultimately,  each  man  will  interpret  that 
law  to  suit  himself.  I  have  known  many  loose  livers,  but 
I  swear  to  you  that  I  have  never  known  one  who  did  not 
attempt  to  justify  his  sexual  wanderings,  not  one!" 

Tim  found  himself  uncomfortably  warm.  Wason  con- 
tinued : 

"Take  away  the  higher  law,  and  the  lower  law  must  be 
undermined.  There  must  be  stern  and  governing  truths  be- 
hind human  conduct." 

Cooke  never  lost  his  temper  in  an  argument.  He  said 
affably : 

"Good  old  Wason !  You  don't  infect  us  with  cholera 
morbus  in  order  to  achieve  a  tremendous  reputation  by  wip- 
ing out  the  epidemic  because  you're  scared  of  eternal  pun- 
ishment You  Christians  are  all  alike." 

"Are  we?"  said  Wason  grimly.  "Shall  I  retort  that 
you  agnostics  are  all  alike  in  accusing  us  of  doing  good  in 
the  hope  of  a  heavenly  reward  and  shunning  evil  for  fear 
of  future  punishment?  Doing  good,  for  good's  sake,  is,  I 
suppose,  the  monopoly  of  atheists.  I  have  no  stomach 
for  these  arguments :  they  lead  no  whither." 

"Perhaps,  but  Tim  and  I  are  interested  in  knowing  where 
you  stand." 

"I'll  tell  you.    My  belief  in  God  goes  deeper  than  what 

you  call  revealed  religion :  and  is  independent  of  it.     God 

reveals  Himself  to  me  personally.    I  believe  in  Him  because 

I  cannot  explain  what  I  know  to  be  the  good  in  me  if  He 

230 


Drought 

is  non-existent.  When  I  follow  and  obey  that  instinct  I 
am  happy.  That  I  know.  When  I  ignore  it  and  wander 
from  it  I  am  unhappy,  and  a  radiating  source  of  unhap- 
piness  to  others.  Tim,  what  about  a  day's  quail-shooting?" 


IV 

When  they  were  alone  over  a  camp-fire,  Wason  said  to 
Tim: 

"I  don't  like  Cooke." 

Tim  replied  warmly. 

"He's  one  of  the  best.  Cheery,  kind,  clever,  and  abso- 
lutely straight." 

"Is  he  straight  ?    Would  he  stand  a  big  test  ?" 

"I'd  stake  my  life  on  it." 

Wason  said  very  drily: 

"You  would  be  very  foolish." 

The  test  came  some  months  afterwards.  Up  till  now  the 
firm  had  been  able  to  meet  their  obligations,  raising  money, 
when  it  became  due,  by  hypothecating  their  collateral  securi- 
ties. Of  these  securities  there  remained  some  one  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  Bills  Receivable,  promis- 
sory notes,  for  the  most  part,  representing  what  was  left 
of  the  profits  on  the  Santa  Margarita  after  a  settlement 
had  been  effected  with  the  banks. 

In  fine,  these  particular  securities  were  gilt-edged  because 
they  covered  highly  improved  property,  and,  allowing  amply 
for  the  depreciation  in  land  values,  were  secured  by  first 
mortgages  which  had  been  half  paid.  Everything  else  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  banks  as  security  against  the  payment 
of  the  three  tracts  lying  to  the  south  of  Santa  Barbara. 
And  now  another  big  cash  payment  upon  those  tracts  was 
due.  Cooke  and  Mrs.  Cooke  went  to  San  Francisco,  leav- 
ing Tim  in  sole  control  of  the  business.  Cooke  took  with 
him  the  nest  egg  to  convert  into  gold.  Three  days  later 
Tim  received  the  following  letter : , 

231 


Timothy 

"My  DEAR  TIM, 

"I  send  you  a  draft  on  the  local  bank  for  sixty  thou- 
sand dollars.  It  is  yours :  and  you  can  do  what  you  like 
with  it.  I  have  taken  my  half,  and  booked  a  passage  to 
Buenos  Ayres.  When  you  read  this  Mrs.  Cooke  and  I 
shall  be  at  sea.  If  you  are  wise  you  will  leave  Southern 
California  and  start  elsewhere  with  this  capital.  Join 
me,  if  you  like,  and  we'll  retrieve  our  fortunes  in  a  coun- 
try which  is  just  beginning  to  go  ahead,  the  Argentine. 
I  could  write  reams  explaining  and  excusing  my  bolting. 
A  few  lines  will  suffice.  To  stay  on,  fighting  hopelessly, 
against  circumstances  we  cannot  control,  means  bank- 
ruptcy and  ruin.  The  dry  year  has  crippled  us  terribly. 
Another  short  season  and  the  shutters  would  have  to  go 
up.  I  have  spent  hours  over  our  accounts.  Rain  might 
save  us,  but  I  doubt  it,  because,  rain  or  no  rain,  Califor- 
nia cannot  recover  in  less  than  five  years.  We  should 
starve  slowly.  Frankly,  I  am  too  old  to  begin  again.  So 
I  have  cut  the  Gordian  knot  in  my  own  way. 

"Good  luck  to  you  and  forgive  me.  I  have  to  think 
of  my  wife,  and  you  must  think  of  dear  little  Magdalena. 
This  money  is  really  hers.  Cut  loose,  Tim,  as  I  have 
done,  and  let  the  banks  take  over  our  business,  which,  in 
every  sense  of  the  word,  is  theirs  already." 

"Your  sincere  friend, 

"HARVEY  COOKE." 

This  unexpected  blow  fell  with  shattering  violence.  Tim 
told  Magdalena,  but  she  could  not  appreciate  the  issues  in- 
volved. She  kissed  and  consoled  her  husband,  affirming  her 
belief  in  his  judgment  and  ability,  insisting  that  he  should 
use  this  money  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  conscience, 
not  hers,  but  she  added  mournfully : 

"Teem,  our  baby  is  here,  you  will  not  go  away,  no?" 

"I  must  talk  to  Wason,"  said  Tim. 

Wason  read  Cooke's  letter  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
His  silence  exasperated  the  young  man. 

"Damn  it!    Say  something,  Wason." 

"Cooke  is  a  coward.  He  has  imposed  an  intolerable 
232 


Drought 

burden  on  your  shoulders.    If  this  is  the  result  of  his  philos- 
ophy, it  stands  gravely  indicted.    Another  instance  of  self- 
justification  by  a  man  who  is  a  law  unto  himself." 
"I  am  nearly  crazy,"  said  Tim. 


The  temptation  to  follow  Cooke  gripped  him  unmerci- 
fully. What  restrained  him  ?  Dare  we  answer  such  a  ques- 
tion? He  could  not  answer  it  himself  at  the  time,  but  long 
afterwards  he  came  slowly  to  the  conclusion  that  something 
inculcated  by  the  Vicar,  something  transcending  cut-and- 
dried  teaching,  something  which  may  be  termed  influence 
or  example,  rose  up  to  confront  this  great  moral  exigency. 

Let  the  other  fellow  worry! 

That  was  a  jest  often  on  Cooke's  lips.  He  had  passed  on 
his  "worry"  to  the  junior  partner,  counselling  him  to  trans- 
fer it  swiftly  to  the  banks.  Tim  asked  himself  what  the 
Vicar  of  Little  Pennington  would  do  in  such  an  emergency. 
That  question  was  easily  answered.  During  a  long  labori- 
ous life  the  Vicar  had  shouldered  the  worries  of  others. 

"I  shall  fight  it  out  alone,"  said  Tim  to  Magdalena. 

She  clung  to  him. 

"You  are  my  brave  Teem.     How  I  love  you!" 

"But  if  this  goes,  your  little  dowry,  we  should  be  pen- 
niless." 

"Ohe!    I  have  my  one-tenth  interest  in  Agua  Caliente." 

Tim  nodded.  He  had  forgotten  that.  And  it  was  worth 
remembering,  for  Agua  Caliente  was  developing  into  a  fa- 
mous health  resort.  The  one-tenth  interest,  ever  increasing, 
represented  a  small  income  of  not  less  than  one  hundred  dol- 
lars a  month. 

"Yes,  you  have  that,"  he  muttered. 

"We  have  that,  mi  querido," 

233 


Timothy 

Tim  went  to  see  James  Mackinnon,  laying  the  facts  be- 
fore him  as  succinctly  as  possible.  In  silence  Mackinnon 
listened :  then  he  held  out  his  hand : 

"I  am  proud  to  be  your  friend,  Tim.  I  will  help  you.  But 
I  am  sadly  in  need  of  help  myself." 

These  two,  the  man  old  in  affairs,  the  young  fellow  stimu- 
lated to  supreme  endeavour,  gazed  at  each  other  across  a 
table  piled  high  with  papers.  They  met  upon  the  common 
ground  of  unmerited  misfortune.  It  was  a  great  moment 
for  Tim. 

"We  must  go  to  the  city  together,"  said  Mackinnon. 

They  did  so. 

Mackinnon  interviewed  the  cashier  of  the  metropolitan 
bank  which  virtually  controlled  Tim's  fortunes. 

To  the  last  Cooke's  genius  for  administration  manifested 
itself.  Tim  received  from  a  city  attorney  an  instrument 
which  conveyed  to  him,  his  heirs  and  assigns,  all  of  Cooke's 
interest  in  the  firm,  in  consideration,  so  the  instrument  ran, 
of  sixty  thousand  dollars,  gold  coin  of  the  United  States. 
For  an  hour  Tim  waited  while  his  fate  was  determined. 
Would  they  scrap  him  ?  It  was  in  their  power  to  do  so.  He 
was  young,  and  a  Britisher.  He  could  sell  land  when  pil- 
grims were  eager  to  buy:  but  Cooke  was  known,  far  and 
wide,  as  the  manipulator,  the  schemer,  the  creator  of  a 
complex  business.  Tim  repeated  to  himself  axioms  cur- 
rent on  the  Pacific  Slope.  "Corporations  have  no  bowels"': 
and  "Friendship  cuts  no  ice  in  business." 

Without  reservations,  he  had  placed  the  sixty  thousand 
dollars  in  James  Mackinnon's  hands.  He  could  keep  every 
cent  of  it.  A  payment  of  nearly  double  that  amount  was 
overdue. 

Tim  decided  that  he  would  be  scrapped.  In  a  moment  of 
pardonable  suspense  and  weakness,  he  found  himself  re- 
flecting that  a  scrapping  would  make  a  free  man  of  him. 
Magdalena  and  he  could  begin  again,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ladder. 

Three  men  received  him  courteously :  the  fourth  was  Mac- 
234 


kinnon.  Tim  could  glean  nothing  from  his  impassive  face, 
except  the  instinctive  conviction  that  an  ordeal  was  to  come. 
Everything  depended  upon  how  Mr.  Timothy  Brown  would 
acquit  himself. 

It  was  another  fight — to  a  finish. 


VI 

The  cashier  spoke  first.  Tim  had  met  him  before.  He 
was  a  small  desiccated  man,  very  grey,  one  who  had  grown 
old  in  the  service  of  a  great  institution,  one  who  had  weath- 
ered storms.  His  manner  was  delusively  mild  and  depre- 
cating. 

"Please  sit  down,  Mr.  Brown." 

Tim  was  strangely  reminded  of  the  Vicar  and  the  hard 
Windsor  chair  upon  which  he  had  wriggled  uneasily  scores 
of  times. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Eight  and  twenty." 

"And  married?" 

Tim  bowed.  The  cashier  fiddled  with  a  pen,  but  he  held 
Tim's  eyes  throughout  the  interview. 

"On  the  part  of  my  colleagues  and  myself,  I  wish  to  ex- 
press our  approval  of  what  you  have  done  in  placing  the 
conduct  of  this  unhappy  affair  unreservedly  in  our  hands. 
Of  Mr.  Cooke  I  prefer  to  say  nothing.  He  has  bolted,  tak- 
ing with  him  money,  which,  in  the  strictest  legal  sense  is 
his,  and  in  no  other.  Had  your  firm  been  forced  into  liqui- 
dation to-day,  this  money  would  have  been  absorbed." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Tim. 

"Good!  An  understanding  of  that  sort  clears  the  air. 
You  seem  to  enjoy  remarkable  health  and  strength." 

"I'm  all  right,  sir." 

"Good  again.  I  come  to  the  point.  Are  we  justified  at 
this  particular  crisis  in  entrusting  so  young  a  man  with 
the  sole  management  of  a  complex  business?  What  have 

235 


Timothy 

you  to  say  to — us?  Speak  quite  frankly.  Submit  your 
claims.  I  can  promise  you  this :  they  will  be  carefully  con- 
sidered." 

Tim  said  simply: 

"Mr.  Cooke  is  entitled  to  all  the  credit  for  thinking  out 
the  general  scheme  upon  which  we  worked,  but  I  can  claim, 
I  think,"  he  glanced  at  Mackinnon,  who  nodded  solemnly,  "a 
personal  knowledge  of  the  men  to  whom  we  sold  land.  I 
shewed  them  the  land,  and,  ever  since,  while  Mr.  Cooke 
remained  in  the  office,  I  have  been  on  the  ranches  getting 
to  know  our  customers  intimately.  It  would  be  impossible 
now,  even  if  it  were  advisable,  to  alter  or  even  to  modify 
the  plan  upon  which  we  have  worked.  In  that  sense  Mr. 
Cooke's  work  has  been  done  and  well  done,  gentlemen." 

The  cashier  assented. 

"What  remains  is  to  collect  money  due,  to  wind  up  the 
business  gradually,  and  to  evict  contract-holders  who  are 
making  trouble." 

"Evict?" 

From  the  cashier's  tone  it  was  impossible  to  guess  whether 
or  not  he  approved  of  eviction. 

"Mr.  Cooke  was  against  eviction.  I  deferred  to  his  riper 
judgment.  All  the  same " 

"Yes,  let  us  have  your  opinion." 

"If  I  had  a  free  hand  I  should  evict  certain  men.  They 
have  been  stirred  up  to  make  trouble." 

"Stirred  up,  what  do  you  mean?" 

Tim  told  the  story  of  the  attempted  black-mailing.  The 
cashier  listened  with  impassive  features,  but  when  Tim 
finished,  he  said  quietly: 

"A  thousand  dollars  would  have  secured  the  good-will  of 
these  journals." 

"Yes,  but  at  the  sacrifice  of  an  essential  principle.  And 
we  should  have  opened  the  door  to  other  black-mailers." 

"Are  we  to  understand,  Mr.  Brown,  that  you  propose  to 
begin  an  active  campaign  against  these  contract-holders  ?    It 
will  stir  up  a  lot  of  trouble." 
236 


Drought. 

"I  know  that,  gentlemen.  But  it's  like  this.  A  hundred 
at  least  of  these  contract-holders  have  the  money  to  make 
a  one-third  payment  and  receive  a  deed  secured  by  mort- 
gage. The  dry  year  has  not  affected  them.  They  want  the 
land,  but  they're  waiting  to  see  what  the  next  season  is  like, 
gambling,  in  short,  with  our  money.  If  I  evict  half  a  dozen 
of  the  most  recalcitrant  the  others  will  march  into  line." 

"I  follow  you." 

"I  suggest,  gentlemen,  that  you  owe  it  to  me  to  give  me 
a  trial.  I  ask  for  nothing  more.  I  will  do  my  best,  and  I 
do  know  the  country,  the  conditions  and  the  people.  I  have 
our  sales  book  here.  I  can  go  into  every  case  with  you,  if 
you  wish  it." 

The  cashier  glanced  at  his  colleagues. 

"I  am  empowered,  Mr.  Brown,  to  speak  for  the  Bank. 
We  accept  your  proposition.  Deal  with  these  contract-hold- 
ers as  you  think  fit.  Times  are  tight  and  money  is  dear, 
but  we  will  pay  the  amount  overdue  to  the  owners  of  the 
three  ranches.  In  other  words,  we  will  advance  you  sixty 
thousand  dollars,  the  amount — er — lifted  by  your  late  part- 
ner. This  leaves  you  short  of  working  capital." 

"It  does." 

"We  are  willing  to  finance  you  within  reasonable  limits. 
You  must  regard  yourself  as  our  general  manager,  re- 
sponsible to  us.  Cut  expenses." 

"They  are  cut." 

"Well,  it  is  up  to  you  to  make  good.  You  have  our  hearti- 
est good  wishes  and — congratulations.  We  are,  unhappily, 
at  the  mercy  of  the  elements,  but  I  believe  that  you  will  do 
all  that  can  be  done." 

The  interview  was  at  an  end.  Tim  lunched  with  Mackin- 
non.  They  walked  together  to  the  Palace  Hotel.  Mackin- 
non  said  curtly: 

"Tim,  my  boy,  that  was  a  personal  triumph." 

"I  owed  it  to  you,  sir.     I  cannot  thank  you  enough." 

"You  are  mistaken.  They  would  have  turned  down  my 

237 


Timothy 

own  son  if  he  had  failed  to  satisfy  them.  The  odds  were 
against  you,  but  you  won  the  confidence  of  the  shrewdest 
banker  in  this  city  in  five  minutes.  I  am  very  pleased." 

"If  we  have  rains,"  said  Tim,  "I  shall  make  good." 

"That  is  my  opinion  also." 


238 


CHAPTER   V 

WHEN  TROUBLES  COME 


TIM  returned  to  Santa  Barbara  conscious  of  an  uplifting 
which  he  had  not  known  since  the  Cherub's  death. 
The  autumn  was  at  hand,  the  autumn  which  would  bring 
rains  and  prosperity  to  this  parched  land.  He  gazed  at  the 
brown  foot-hills  as  he  sped  through  them,  identifying  him- 
self with  them,  believing  that  the  colour  would  flow  back 
into  his  life,  the  soft  tender  shades  of  heliotrope  and  pink 
which  stole  upon  the  landscape  as  the  sun  declined. 

James  Mackinnon  and  he  talked  cheerfully  of  the  les- 
sons gleaned  from  a  harvestless  year,  the  necessity  of  hus- 
banding water,  of  boring  artesian  wells,  of  keeping  sufficient 
hay  and  straw  to  tide  cattle  over  a  drought. 

Such  topics  were  on  the  lips  and  in  the  minds  of  all 
men.  Recuperating  influences  were  at  work.  The  terrible 
dry  year  was  over.  Southern  California  would  wake  up 
from  her  long  sleep,  re-invigorated  and  refreshed  to  bring 
forth  more  abundantly. 

But  everywhere,  except  upon  the  irrigated  areas,  lay  the 
signs  of  catastrophe.  By  the  springs  and  dried-up  water 
courses  the  bones  of  cattle  whitened  in  the  sun,  the  women 
and  children  looked  gaunt  and  parched:  the  men  hanging 
about  the  stores  waiting  for  work  stared  sullenly  at  the 
passengers  who  were  flitting  past  them,  able  to  leave  and 
glad  to  leave  a  stricken  country. 

The  news  that  Tim  was  captain  of  a  gallant  ship,  par- 
tially crippled,  but  still  seaworthy,  became  known. 

A  few  guessed  the  truth,  and  the  majority  of  these — it  is 

239 


Timothy 

to  be  feared — commended  the  prudence  of  the  Senor  Cooke. 

Within  a  week  the  trouble  with  the  contract-holders  be- 
came acute.  Tim  served  notices  of  eviction  upon  half  a 
dozen  men,  which  caused  an  indignation  meeting  of  the 
others.  Amongst  them  was  a  fellow  called  Ginty,  an  ill- 
conditioned,  powerful  ruffian,  with  a  reputation  for  being 
a  "bad-man."  He  had,  indeed,  shot  down  a  fellow  citizen 
in  a  drunken  brawl,  escaping  punishment  upon  the  thread- 
bare plea  of  self-defence.  The  men  who  had  paid  for 
their  ranches  were  against  the  contract-holders,  whose  un- 
improved patches  remained  an  eye-sore,  and  a  menace  to 
progress. 

Many  of  these  ranchers  proved  staunch  friends  to  Tim, 
keeping  him  "posted,"  as  the  phrase  runs.  Through  them 
Tim  learned  of  the  indignation  meeting  and  the  resolu- 
tions carried  thereat.  Ginty,  it  appeared,  had  constituted 
himself  the  ring-leader,  proclaiming  his  intention  of  settling 
with  the  Britisher  at  a  pistol's  point. 

Tim  received  a  letter 

"DERE  SIR, 

"This  is  to  tell  you  that  youve  bitten  off  more'n  you  kin 
chew,  and  must  climb  down  pronto.  We  means  bizness. 
That  ther  is  a  cold  fact.  The  land  is  ourn  and  we  mean 
ter  freeze  onter  it  till  the  cows  come  home.  If  yer 
huntin  trouble  were  the  boys  to  make  it  for  ye. 

"Quit  foolin  with 

"CONTRACT  HOLDERS." 

Tim  handed  this  epistle  to  the  Sheriff  who  could  be 
trusted  to  do  whatever  was  required.  Ginty  and  his  friends 
became  inflamed  by  bad  language  and  worse  drink.  Finally 
Tim  learned  from  a  sure  source  that  Ginty  was  ripe  for 
trouble  and  coming  into  town  to  make  it.  Tim  consulted 
with  his  only  clerk,  a  stout  fellow,  loyal  to  Tim,  who  had 
been  with  the  firm  since  its  inception.  The  two  held  coun- 
cil. A  door  opened  between  the  outer  and  inner  office. 
Tim  moved  his  desk  so  that  it  faced  this.  He  placed  a 
240 


When  Troubles  Come 

six-shooter  in  the  centre  drawer.  George,  the  clerk,  carried 
a  smaller  pistol  in  his  coat  pocket.  Tim  instructed  George 
to  receive  Ginty  politely,  and  to  ask  him  to  sit  down  in  the 
outer  office.  When  Tim  was  ready  to  receive  the  fire-eater, 
George  would  show  him  into  the  inner  office.  He  would 
be  invited  to  sit  down  opposite  him,  facing  the  window, 
with  his  back  to  the  door.  Tim  concluded: 

"You  will  be  near  the  door,  George.  If  he  tries  to  draw 
his  gun,  shoot!  I  shall  shoot  too." 

They  rehearsed  the  business,  moving  the  chair  to  one 
side,  so  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  shooting  through 
Ginty  at  each  other.  When  Tim  was  satisfied  with  these 
preliminary  arrangements,  he  said  to  George: 

"I  don't  want  to  kill  this  blackguard,  but  I'd  sooner  kill 
than  be  killed.  He  thinks  that  I'm  lying  awake  at  night 
scared  to  death.  We  must  disabuse  his  mind  of  that." 

"How?" 

"Cool  him  down  for  one  thing.  When  he  blusters  in, 
you  say  that  I'm  busy.  Come  to  my  room  and  stand  on 
the  threshold.  Announce  the  fellow  in  a  loud  voice.  I'll 
do  the  rest.  It's  up  to  us,  George,  to  turn  a  possible  tragedy 
into  a  comedy.  See?" 

"You  bet !" 

Tim  and  George  did  a  little  pistol  practice. 

Ginty  appeared  some  three  days  later.  George  asked  him 
to  sit  down.  Then  he  opened  the  communicating  door,  and 
said: 

"Mr.  Ginty  wants  to  see  you." 

Tim  said  clearly : 

"What  Mr.  Ginty?" 

"Mr.  Thomas  Ginty  from  the  San  Julian." 

"I'm  very  busy.  I'll  see  Mr.  Ginty  in  three  minutes. 
Look  up  his  case.  Bring  me  the  sales  book.  Give  Mr. 
Ginty  the  paper." 

Ginty — so  George  reported  afterwards — listened  to  this 
easy  talk  with  some  surprise.  Like  all  ignorant  persons 
he  expected,  being  defiant,  to  meet  defiance.  This  courteous 

241 


Timothy 

reception,  this  strange  indifference  to  the  presence  of  a 
"bad  man,"  disconcerted  him.  He  sat  down,  open-mouthed 
and  open-eyed,  and  waited. 

Tim  thought  it  prudent  to  allow  him  five  minutes.  A 
longer  time  might  have  been  impolitic.  Policy  was  a  word 
often  upon  Cooke's  lips.  If  Ginty  could  be  handled  dis- 
creetly, the  banks  would  approve.  We  must  admit  that 
it  was  a  delicate  situation  for  a  young,  hot-blooded  man. 

Tim  placed  an  arm-chair  for  his  visitor.  It  is  not  easy  to 
shoot  from  an  arm-chair;  and  if  Ginty  leapt  to  his  feet, — 
as  was  probable — before  "pulling  his  gun,"  why  then,  so 
Tim  reasoned,  he  would  be  covered  by  George  before  his 
hand  dashed  to  his  pocket.  Tim  was  delighted  with  George : 
he  exhibited  no  nervousness :  a  pleasant  smile  flickered 
about  lips  which  indicated  plenty  of  pluck  and  determina- 
tion. 

When  the  five  minutes  had  passed,  Tim  went  to  the 
door,  marched  into  the  office,  and  greeted  Ginty  affably: 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Ginty.    Glad  to  see  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Ginty  rose  awkwardly,  met  Tim's 
careless  glance,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  extended 
his  hand.  Tim  gripped  it  hard.  Ginty,  although  vinously 
exalted,  had  no  doubt  of  Tim's  muscular  strength. 

"Come  into  my  room,  and  let's  have  a  talk.  George,  you 
can  come  too,  and  tell  me  what  I  have  forgotten  about  this 
particular  case." 

Forgotten  I 

Ginty,  as  fencers  say,  was  touched.  He  followed  Tim 
into  the  inner  room,  and  sat  down  in  the  arm  chair.  Tim 
sat  down  also,  telling  George  to  place  the  sales  book  and 
other  papers  before  him. 

"Page  119,"  said  George. 

"Thank  you,  now  let's  see.  Oh,  yes.  You  selected  lot 
23  on  the  San  Julian  more  than  two  years  ago.  You  paid 
down  twenty-five  dollars,  and  received  our  usual  contract. 
A  further  payment  was  due  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars six  months  after  date.  Am  I  correct?" 
242 


When  Troubles  Come 

"I  guess  so,"  growled  Ginty.  He  was  completely  non- 
plussed, upset  at  discovering  that  his  case  required  looking 
up. 

"It  appears,"  said  Tim,  "that  you  have  made  no  further 
payment  since  the  first  twenty-five  dollars.  Mr.  Cooke, 
as  perhaps  you  know,  attended  to  the  business  end.  Did 
he  press  you  at  all  for  these  overdue  payments  ?" 

"Yes,  he  did." 

"Times  were  good  then.  Tell  me  frankly  why  you  didn't 
meet  them?  George,  you  can  go.  I'll  call  you  if  I  want 
you.  Now,  as  between  man  and  man,  Mr.  Ginty,  why  did 
you  not  make  these  payments  ?  I  take  it  that  you  had  some 
money,  or  you  wouldn't  have  wanted  this  land." 

"That's  my  business." 

"But  it's  mine,  as  well.  Perhaps  you  regarded  this  first 
small  payment  as  what  we  call  option  money.  You  may 
have  hoped,  not  unreasonably,  to  sell  your  land  at  a  higher 
figure  before  the  second  payment  fell  due?" 

Ginty  squirmed.  This,  indeed,  had  been  his  idea.  He 
was  an  ignorant  fool,  but  fools — according  to  Harvey  Cooke 
— might  forget  what  was  due  to  others  whilst  preserving 
a  lively  sense  of  what  was  due  to  themselves. 

Cooke  would  say :  "I  never  yet  engaged  a  fool  who  for- 
got to  draw  his  salary.''  Ginty  maintained  a  sullen  silence. 
Tim  went  on  cheerfully: 

"We  are  having  a  little  trouble  with  some  of  our  con- 
tract-holders, and  I  received  a  letter  a  few  days  ago  which 
was  unsigned.  I  turned  it  over  to  the  Sheriff.  I  dare  say 
you  had  nothing  to  do  with  it;  but  it  was  worth  money  to 
me,  for  it  furnished  conclusive  evidence  that  some  of  our 
contract-holders  deliberately  mean  to  repudiate  their  obliga- 
tions." 

Ginty  wrestled  with  these  long  words,  as  Tim  expected 
and  desired. 

"Mr.  Cooke,"  continued  Tim,  "treated  our  contract- 
holders  with  astounding  leniency  and  consideration.  Some 
of  you,  I  mention  no  names,  have  been  playing  our  game. 

243 


Timothy 

We  secured  these  three  big  ranches  on  option.  But  when 
the  time  came  to  pay  up,  we  paid.  Some  properties  we 
let  go,  forfeiting  the  option  money.  You  gentlemen  seem 
to  want  it  both  ways.  You  pay  down  a  small  sum  to  secure 
an  option  upon  valuable  property,  and  when  the  time  comes 
to  make  good,  you  decline  to  do  so,  but  you  hold  on  to  the 
land.  Is  that  your  idea  of  doing  square  business?" 

Ginty  expectorated. 

"Do  you  want  something  for  nothing?  I  am  anxious 
to  look  at  the  matter  from  your  point  of  view.  Are  you,  in 
short,  asking  me  for  charity?  Would  you  like  me  to  give 
you  this  land?" 

"Charity?    Who's  talking  o'  charity?" 

"I  am.  The  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  some  of  you 
are  behaving  like  beggars  in  the  street.  I  am  beginning 
to  remember  you,  sir.  I  shewed  you  that  land.  You  told 
me  you  proposed  to  fence  it,  put  in  a  crop,  and  build  a 
house  and  barn.  I  gathered  that  you  were  a  hustler,  a  gen- 
uine settler,  not  a  gambler.  Was  I  wrong?" 

"I  waited  to  see  how  the  season  would  pan  out." 

"That  season  was  a  good  one." 

"Mebbe  I  got  cold  feet.  The  land  out  thar  ain't  what 
you  fellers  cracked  it  up  ter  be.  Not  by  a  damn  sight!" 

Tim  smiled  genially.  If  he  could  lure  this  savage  on 
to  talk,  sooner  or  later  he  would  trip  himself  up. 

"I  see.    You  think  that  you  were  imposed  upon  ?" 

"I  ain't  the  only  one  as  thinks  so." 

"Good !  We  are  getting  to  bedrock.  It's  a  pleasure  to 
talk  with  you,  Mr.  Ginty.  I  may  assume  you  consider  you 
have  been  imposed  upon  inasmuch  as  you  paid  down  twenty- 
five  dollars  to  secure  200  acres  of  land,  valued  rightly  or 
wrongly,  at  twenty-five  dollars  an  acre ;  and  you  have  kept 
this  land  unimproved  in  the  hope  of  selling  it  for  more 
than  twenty-five  dollars  an  acre;  and  you  have  failed  to 
carry  out  your  promise  to  fence  and  plough  and  build; 
and  you  have  held  this  property  two  years,  and  you  want 
244 


When  Troubles  Come 

to  go  on  holding  it  although  you  have  suffered  such  gross 
imposition  ?" 

Ginty  said  nothing.  Tim  continued  in  the  same  suave 
tone,  never  raising  his  voice,  and  never  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  other's  congested  face. 

"Let  us  figure  a  bit.  You  are  out  twenty-five  dollars.  I 
am  out  the  interest  on  five  thousand  dollars,  at  8  per  cent 
for  two  years,  say  eight  hundred  dollars.  Which  of  us 
has  had  the  best  of  it,  eh?" 

"I  dunno  or  keer  overly  much." 

"But  I  do  know,  and  I  do  care.  Now  let  me  impress 
this  upon  you,  and  you  will  be  doing  your  friends  on  the 
San  Julian  a  kindness  if  you  repeat  to  them  what  I  say. 
I'll  deal  with  your  case  alone.  We  have  offered  to  cancel 
your  contract,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  automatically 
cancelled  long  ago,  when  the  first  payment  was  not  met. 
We  have  faced  a  big  loss  presuming  that  you  would  face 
a  little  loss,  but " 

He  paused  smiling. 

"But— what?" 

"If  you  persist  upon  holding  your  contract,  you  become 
liable  for  arrears  of  interest.  You  have,  so  I  presume,  a 
home  of  sorts,  horses,  cows,  and  so  forth.  /  can  attach 
the  lot.  Let  me  finish.  I  am  glad  you  have  come  in,  for  I 
propose  to  settle  with  you  here  and  now.  This  is  the 
original  contract,  of  which  you  hold  a  duplicate.  I  make 
you  this  offer.  Cancel  it,  and  go  your  way.  Or,  renew  it, 
and  pay  up  arrears  of  interest.  One  more  word.  You  may 
think  that  I  am  the  sole  owner  of  the  San  Julian?" 

Ginty  perceived  an  opportunity  for  being  insolent  and 
malicious :  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  Tim  presented  it. 

"No!  I  know  damn  well  that  the  banks  hev  ye — that's 
why  Cooke  vamoosed." 

"Perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  deal  with  the  banks?" 

"I'm  here  to  deal  with  you,  young  man." 

"Good!  We  understand  each  other.  If  I  vamoosed 
to-day,  you  would  have  to  deal  with  the  banks,  and  I  warn 

245 


Timothy 

you  that  they  would  shew  you  no  consideration  whatever. 
They  would  attach  every  stick  you  possess  to-morrow. 
Now  I'm  sure  your  time  is  valuable,  and  so  is  mine.  I  give 
you  two  minutes  to  decide" — Tim  laid  his  watch  upon  the 
desk — "whether  you  will  deal  with  me  or  the  Sheriff.  You 
will  have  to  settle  with  somebody.  Two  minutes,  Mr.  Ginty. 
Can  I  offer  you  a  mild  cigar?" 

Ginty  scowled. 

"You  ain't  a-goin'  to  flim-flam  me." 

Tim  said  civilly: 

"I  have  no  intention  of  flim-flamming  or  being  flim- 
flammed.  With  your  kind  permission  I'll  go  on  with  my 
work." 

He  bent  over  some  papers.  Behind  Ginty,  at  short  range, 
stood  George,  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  The  centre 
drawer  lay  just  open.  Tim  took  a  paper  from  it.  Ginty 
stood  up. 

"I'll  cancel  my  contrack." 

This  was  done  in  due  form.  Ginty  walked  to  the  door, 
whence  he  flung  a  Parthian  shaft: 

"You've  bested  me,  damn  yer  soul!  But  the  dry  years'll 
bust  you,  higher'n  a  kite !" 

ii 

This  was  another  fluid  triumph,  percolating  to  the  minds 
of  the  contract-holders  and  eventually  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  cashier  of  the  metropolitan  bank.  Peace  followed  war. 
Many  met  their  obligations :  a  few  cancelled  contracts  and 
left  the  ranches. 

But  the  rain  did  not  come. 

Tim  might  have  stood  the  misery  of  those  awful  days 
had  he  apprehended  bankruptcy  alone.  His  greatest  trial 
descended  upon  him  when  he  was  least  able  to  bear  it. 

Magdalena  became  strangely  listless. 

But  she  told  Tim  that  she  suffered  no  pain,  and  there 
was  no  cough.  Profuse  perspiration  at  night  and  a  rising 
246 


When  Troubles  Come 

temperature  indicated  deep-seated  trouble,  but  Wason  was 
unable  to  locate  it,  till  abdominal  pains  and  ascytes  set  in. 

Wason  took  Tim  aside. 

"It  is  tubercular  peritonitis.  If  the  swelling  cannot  be 
reduced  an  operation  will  be  necessary." 

Tim  listened,  grimly  despairing. 

"She  will  go  as  the  boy  went,"  he  said  slowly.  "The  luck 
is  dead  against  me :  it  has  always  been  so,  always,  always." 

Wason  counselled  a  move  to  San  Francisco.  Let  experts 
decide!  Tim  agreed.  Wason  tried  to  be  hopeful,  citing 
clinical  cases  by  the  dozen.  The  operation  would  be  capital, 
but  fortunately  there  was  no  cardiac  weakness,  and  no  in- 
dication whatever  that  the  lungs  were  affected. 

"You  must  prepare  her,"  said  Wason. 

Tim  did  so.  To  his  immense  surprise  Magdalena  ac- 
cepted the  truth  calmly  and  hopefully.  Afterwards,  Tim 
wondered  whether  this  optimism  was  merely  a  symptom  of 
her  malady,  or  whether  she  dissembled  for  love  of  him. 

Magdalena  ended  by  laughing  at  his  solemn  face. 

"Look  at  Tia  Maria  Luisa!  She  has  had  the  consump- 
tion for  thirty  years.  It  comes :  it  goes.  Children  die  quick, 
quick  !  But  I  am  an  old  married  woman.  Ohe !  you  won't 
get  rid  of  me  easily,  my  Teem." 

Her  gaiety  was  too  severe  a  strain  upon  his  self-control. 
He  had  nerved  himself  to  bear  anything  except  that.  She 
was  sitting  in  a  chair,  looking  up  at  him,  as  she  spoke. 
He  fell  upon  his  knees,  burying  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
Great  sobs  shook  him,  the  expression  of  all  that  he  had 
suppressed  at  the  child's  death  and  afterwards,  when  the 
work  of  seven  years  crumbled  into  fine  white  dust.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  restrain  this  passionate  outburst.  Her 
thin  hand  played  with  his  hair.  Perhaps  she  was  praying 
for  him  rather  than  for  herself.  When  the  paroxysm 
passed,  she  kissed  his  eyes,  and  then  lay 'in  his  arms  with 
a  faint  smile  upon  her  lips.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  on 
either  side.  Tim  noted  a  serene  expression  upon  her  face, 
an  unmistakable  happiness.  He  realised  that  his  passion 

247 


Timothy 

of  emotion  had  soothed  and  satisfied  her.  She  had  always 
been  avid  for  the  manifestation  of  tenderness,  never  weary 
of  his  assurance  that  he  loved  her,  but  of  late,  engrossed 
and  harassed  by  business  cares,  he  had  neglected  these 
sweet  repetitions.  Presently  she  said  softly: 

"Teem,  you  have  made  me  ever  so  happy.  Whatever 
happens,  remember  that.  The  Virgin  has  blessed  me!  I 
think  of  poor  Dolores  and  the  others  who  died  so  young. 
They  never  knew  what  I  have  known." 

Her  artless  philosophy,  her  childish  wisdom,  her  ability 
to  measure  love  and  to  proclaim  that  she  had  been  blessed 
no  matter  what  the  future  might  hold,  produced  a  pro- 
found effect  upon  her  husband.  He  remembered  what  he 
had  said  to  Wason  about  the  luck  being  against  him.  Had 
it?  Already,  before  he  was  thirty,  he  had  run  the  gamut  of 
intense  emotions.  He  had  suffered  horribly:  he  had  tri- 
umphed, the  bitter  and  the  sweet  of  life  had  been  his  por- 
tion. He  said  humbly: 

"You  make  me  ashamed  of  myself." 

The  operation  was  performed  by  a  specialist  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, at  the  California  Women's  Hospital.  Tim  was 
offered  quarters  there  by  the  House  Surgeon,  an  exception 
to  a  necessary  rule  being  made  in  his  case,  for  Wason  told 
the  surgeon  that  Tim's  presence  might  mean  life  or  death 
to  the  patient.  Tim  held  Magdalena's  hand,  as  she  lay  in 
bed,  when  the  anaesthetist  came  in.  They  carried  her  to 
the  operating  theatre;  and  Tim  was  left  alone  with  his 
thoughts.  Magdalena's  fortitude  sustained  him.  She  ex- 
hibited no  fear,  obeying  the  directions  of  the  anaesthetist 
intelligently.  As  she  passed  into  unconsciousness,  she 
gripped  Tim's  hand  with  a  strength  which  surprised  him; 
and  she  called  him  by  name  hoarsely,  in  a  voice  he  hardly 
recognised. 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  road  opposite  to  the  hospital, 

staring  at  the  windows  upon  the  second  floor.    As  soon  as 

the  operation  was  over,  and  Magdalena  back  in  bed,  her 

day-nurse  promised  to  hang  a  towel  out  of  the  window. 

248 


When  Troubles  Come 

An  hour  passed  before  the  signal  was  given.  Tim  rushed 
into  the  Hospital,  to  meet  the  surgeon  in  the  hall.  The 
matron  was  with  him.  He  said  curtly  to  Tim : 

"She  is  doing  well ;  the  operation  was  not  so  severe  as  I 
had  feared." 

Tim  stammered  out  a  few  words  of  thanks. 

Within  a  month  Magdalena  was  back  in  Santa  Barbara, 
convalescent,  and — so  far  as  could  be  predicted — likely  to 
recover  her  former  strength  and  health. 


in 

One  shrinks  from  recording  the  months  that  followed. 

Hope  died  out  of  the  hearts  of  the  people  as  they  stared 
day  after  day  into  the  pitiless  skies.  In  the  remoter  foot- 
hills squatters  were  starving.  Public  charity  relieved  them. 
Train  after  train  left  San  Francisco  loaded  with  flour  and 
beans  and  bacon.  Upon  the  ranges  the  cattle  and  horses 
perished.  The  young  orchards,  which  represented  so  much 
money  and  labour  and  solicitude,  became  dusty  deserts,  ex- 
hibiting lines  of  leafless  trees,  scarecrows  warning  all  be- 
holders that  horticulture  without  water  is  as  the  weaving 
of  ropes  out  of  sand.  But  Tim  told  himself  that  Mag- 
dalena had  been  spared. 

While  she  lay  senseless  in  the  operating  theatre  Tim 
prayed  to  the  God  of  his  childhood,  the  beneficent  Provi- 
dence watching  over  Little  Pennington.  He  had  entreated 
a  Personal  Deity  to  stretch  forth  His  hand  and  save! 
Reverting  unconsciously  to  the  teaching  of  his  youth,  be- 
lieving for  the  moment  that  the  God  of  Israel  exacted 
sacrifice,  he  had  laid  upon  the  altar  of  his  prayers  a  renun- 
ciation of  mundane  ambitions.  He  had  bargained  with  Om- 
nipotence, as  millions  have  done  in  moments  of  agony  and 
helplessness. 

"Make  me  bankrupt,  O  God !  but  give  me  back  my  wife !" 

Because  that  prayer  had  been  answered,  he  confronted 

249 


Timothy 

valiantly  the  future.  The  banks  could  not  help  him,  for 
they  too  were  tottering  to  their  fall.  His  ready  money  was 
exhausted.  Magdalena  and  he  moved  into  a  cottage  and 
discharged  the  two  servants.  The  one-tenth  interest  from 
Agua  Caliente  became  their  sole  source  of  income. 

Alone  in  his  deserted  office,  staring  at  ledgers  and  cash- 
books,  ever  reminded  of  former  triumphs  by  the  maps  upon 
the  walls,  Tim  had  to  chew  the  cud  of  this  reflection. 

If  a  coin,  spun  at  hazard,  had  fallen  with  the  eagle  upper- 
most, he  would  have  been  in  England  with  a  fortune  of  at 
least  one  hundred  thousand  pounds. 


250 


CHAPTER  VI 

ADIOS ! 


IN  the  following  May  Tim  was  obliged  to  make  a  settle- 
ment with  the  metropolitan  bank,  which  treated  him 
not  ungenerously.  The  change,  in  one  sense,  was  for  the 
better.  Tim  abandoned  all  interests,  past,  present,  and  fu- 
ture, as  a  principal  in  the  big  business  which  Cooke  and  he 
had  organised  upon  lines  which  nobody  criticised  or  con- 
demned, upon  lines,  indeed,  which  were  adopted  by  others 
—when  prosperity  returned  to  California.  Two  dry  years 
in  succession  ruined  Tim.  The  bank  appointed  him  their 
general  manager  at  a  salary  of  two  hundred  dollars  a 
month.  Tim  regained  something  of  his  former  buoyancy, 
for  a  fixed  salary  meant  increased  comfort  for  Magda- 
lena.  The  cashier  added  some  pleasant  words : 

"We  are  well  aware,  Mr.  Brown,  that  this  must  be  a 
bitter  pill  for  you  to  swallow,  but  it  will  clear  your  system. 
I  can  make  no  promises,  but  I  am  empowered  to  say  this — 
if  times  mend,  as  they  must,  opportunities  will  be  offered 
to  you  by  us.  This  state  needs  youth  and  enthusiasm  com- 
bined with  integrity.  We  welcome  new  blood.  Work  for 
us,  as  you  have  worked  for  yourself,  and  the  result  may 
surprise  you." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Tim. 

George  was  retained  also  by  the  bank.  Manager  and 
man  had  little  to  do  beyond  the  preparing  of  elaborate 
monthly  reports,  the  collection  of  what  money  could  be  col- 
lected, and  the  financing  of  farmers  who  deserved  such 
help. 

251 


Timothy 

It  was,  of  course,  Tim's  duty  to  be  at  the  office  between 
the  hours  of  nine  and  five.  As  a  rule,  the  morning  sufficed 
to  write  letters,  answer  them,  and  adjust  accounts.  The 
afternoons  hung  heavy  upon  active  hands  and  wits.  Wason 
suggested  reading  as  a  resource.  Why  not  rub  up  one's 
Latin  and  Greek  ?  Why  should  any  knowledge,  laboriously 
acquired,  be  suffered  to  atrophy  from  neglect?  Tim,  fired 
by  this  sound  advice,  plunged  into  the  Classics.  During 
six  months  he  read  through  the  Iliad,  the  comedies  of 
Aristophanes,  Terence's  plays,  Plautus,  and  Juvenal.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  grew  sick  of  them.  He  said  to  Wason : 

"It's  like  looking  on  at  cricket." 

"Looking  on?  Yes.  Well,  why  not  play?  You  can't 
paint.  The  Bank  would  bar  that.  You've  talked  a  lot  to 
me  about  the  colour  of  life.  Try  to  set  some  of  it  forth 
in  pen  and  ink.  Write !  I  believe  you  can  do  it.  You've 
done  a  lot  of  pamphleteering.  You've  a  knack  of  vivid  de- 
scription. And  you've  had  astonishing  experiences.  I  say — 
write !" 

Tim  tackled  this  new  job  with  ardour,  fortified  not  only 
by  Wason,  but  by  another  friend,  the  editor  of  the  Santa 
Barbara  Banner,  essentially  a  man  of  letters,  condemned  by 
necessity  to  sling  printer's  ink  because  he  lacked  the  creative 
gift.  His  name  was  Hoyt,  and  he  happened  to  be  of  kin 
to  Emerson  and  Lowell.  A  fine  humanity  informed  Hoyt 
and  an  attractive  Bohemianism.  He  afforded  an  amusing 
contrast  to  Wason,  accusing  him  to  his  face  of  being  hide- 
bound by  New  England  sanctions  and  objurgations.  Hoyt 
was  essentially  imaginative,  beholding  life  as  it  might  be 
under  happier  conditions  and  with  a  wider  scope  for  indi- 
vidual tendencies. 

This  had  driven  him  to  the  West,  but  he  had  brought 
with  him  and  retained  the  fastidiousness  and  refinements  of 
the  East.  He  wrote  good  commercial  stuff  salted  and  pep- 
pered for  the  California  palate,  but  he  abhorred,  like  Wason, 
anything  which  smacked  of  slipshod  accomplishment.  With 
252 


Adios! 

abundant  leisure,  which  was  denied  to  him,  he  might  have 
become  a  critic  del  primisimo  valore. 

Tim  wrote  his  first  short  story,  and  read  it  aloud  to  Mag- 
dalena,  Wason,  and  Hoyt  Wason,  poor  fellow,  tired  after 
a  long  day's  work,  fell  asleep:  Magdalena  was  so  furious 
with  Wason  that  she  was  quite  unable  to  give  attention  to 
the  story.  Before  she  heard  the  opening  lines,  she  had 
decided  that  her  clever  Tim  could  write  better  short  stories 
than  Rudyard  Kipling,  if  he  chose  to  try.  Hoyt  suspended 
judgment,  taking  the  manuscript  home  with  him,  asking 
Tim  to  drop  in  at  the  Banner  office  next  day,  after  five. 

Wason  woke  up,  apologised  abjectly,  was  forgiven,  except 
by  Magdalena,  and  played  his  part  gallantly  at  the  chafing- 
dish  supper  which  followed. 

Next  day,  Tim  saw  Hoyt  alone.  Rather  to  Tim's  amuse- 
ment, Hoyt  had  assumed  a  judicial  air.  He  wore  a  pair  of 
gold-rimmed  spectacles :  he  sat  upright  in  the  editorial 
chair :  he  waved  a  minatory  hand. 

"It's  rotten  bad,"  began  Hoyt,  touching  the  manuscript 
gingerly,  flicking  at  it  with  nicotine-stained  finger-tips. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Tim. 

Hoyt  continued  solemnly: 

"Do  you  think  I  would  tell  you  that  if  there  was  noth- 
ing else  to  be  said?  I  can  get  this  printed,  Tim.  I'll  print 
it  myself  and  pay  current  rates.  It's  what  my  readers  want. 
It's  full  of  false  sentiment,  false  psychology  and  the  tech- 
nique  !  Oh,  God !" 

"Take  another  shot,"  said  Tim,  as  Hoyt  paused  to  roll 
another  cigarette. 

"All  the  same,  I'm  surprised  and  delighted." 

He  lay  back,  laughing  genially,  surveying  Tim  above  his 
spectacles,  taking  some  tobacco  from  a  delicately  engraved 
silver  snuff-box,  which  he  always  carried,  and  which  indi- 
cated subtly  the  man's  taste  and  love  of  craftsmanship. 
Tim  laughed,  too. 

"You  have  it  in  you,"  declared  Hoyt. 

"What?" 

253 


Timothy 


"Ah !  what  ?  The  thing  I  mean  is  invisible  at  present  and 
indescribable.  It's  a  sense  of  the  dramatic  in  life,  and  some- 
thing more,  a  sympathy,  a  kindliness,  an  invincible  opti- 
mism." 

"Go  on  firing,"  said  Tim.    "I  wallow  in  this." 

"May  I  do  what  I  like  with  your  script?" 

"Of  course." 

Hoyt  picked  it  up. 

"Have  you  a  rough  draft  ?** 

"No." 

Hoyt  tore  up  the  manuscript  and  dropped  it  into  the 
waste-paper  basket. 

"Now,  listen  to  me.  Is  it  possible,  I  wonder,  to  teach 
the  young  idea  how  to  write?  Yes,  if  the  young  idea  is 
intelligent.  Go  on  writing!  I'll  teach  you  punctuation 
and  grammar  by  sending  across  galley  slips  for  you  to 
correct.  It's  easier  to  correct  the  mistakes  of  others,  and 
much  more  fun.  You  can  do  some  reviewing  for  me — for 
nothing.  Slate  'em!  Most  of  'em  deserve  it.  Write  an- 
other yarn  and  submit  it.  Stick  to  what  you  know.  De- 
scribe real  people,  real  happenings!  Construct  a  simple 
story  in  your  mind.  Don't  wander  from  your  theme;  let 
it  develop  cumulatively.  Be  natural !  Be  yourself !  Don't 
strain  after  effect,  or  bore  people  stiff  by  analysing  too 
closely  causes.  I'll  red-pencil  what  you  write.  I'll  godfather 
you,  because — well,  because  I  believe  that  you  are  worth 
while.  Have  you  sucked  it  all  in?" 

"Like  mother's  milk." 

"Then,  go  and  spoil  more  paper." 


ii 

Tim  obeyed.    But  he  worked  under  constant  disabilities. 

Afterwards,  when  he  heard  writers  demanding  inviolate 

silence,  a  room  set  apart  for  their  use,  and  a  faithful  wife 

to  keep  distracting  visitors  at  bay,  he  would  think  of  his 

254 


Adios! 

literary  apprenticeship  and  the  disturbing  elements  which 
had  to  be  ignored :  the  everlasting  click  of  George's  Rem- 
ington, the  street  sounds,  the  men  and  women  dropping  in 
at  all  hours,  asking,  for  the  most  part,  idiotic  questions 
which  had  to  be  answered  patiently  and  courteously. 

In  time  he  achieved  detachment.  He  learned  to  stop 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  to  pigeon-hole  his  fancy,  to 
tie  a  string  to  some  kite-like  thought,  and  to  concentrate 
attention  upon  his  theme  regardless  of  outside  sounds. 

It  was  invaluable  discipline. 

He  had  a  facility  in  writing  as  in  speech,  which  Hoyt 
deplored,  contending  that  the  best  work  was  done  with 
infinite  labour  and  hesitation.  He  quoted  Stevenson.  "Play 
the  sedulous  ape  1"  He  was  unmerciful  in  his  condemnation 
of  cliche,  and  colloquial  expressions  used  in  narrative.  Tim, 
not  too  thin-skinned  after  many  bludgeonings,  writhed  and 
grimaced  when  Hoyt's  tongue  bit  deep  into  a  bit  of  sugary 
sentiment  or  pathos.  But  he  came  to  prize  his  mentor's 
praise,  cutting  and  revising  copy  with  the  best  temper  in 
the  world.  One  day  Hoyt  said  emphatically : 

"This  is  jolly :  there's  mirth  in  it.  You  have  a  light  touch, 
Tim:  you  must  cultivate  that." 

Tim  began  a  novel  dealing  with  the  more  humorous  side 
of  ranch  life,  setting  forth  his  blunders  and  the  blun- 
ders of  other  men  who  embarked  upon  viticulture  and 
horticulture  with  no  knowledge  other  than  what  they  had 
gleaned  planting  corn  and  raising  hogs  in  the  mid-west. 
Hoyt  chuckled : 

"This  is  the  right  stuff,"  he  declared. 

And  then,  when  colour  and  mirth  were  creeping  once 
more  into  Tim's  life,  even  as  they  informed  his  writing, 
Magdalena  began  to  cough! 

in 

Wason  did  not  disguise  his  alarm  from  the  distraught 
husband.  The  cough  grew  harder  and  more  frequent. 

255 


Timothy 

Shortness  of  breath  and  a  rise  of  temperature  at  night 
confirmed  the  diagnosis.  Wason  prescribed  open-air  treat- 
ment, cod-liver  oil,  tonics,  everything  known  to  the  science 
of  the  nineties.  Magdalena,  who  had  grown  plump  again 
after  the  operation,  lost  flesh  rapidly. 

It  was  acute  phthisis. 

Happily  she  suffered  little  pain  beyond  what  was  caused 
by  the  difficulty  in  breathing.  To  the  last,  till  the  moment 
when  coma  preceded  death,  she  remained  hopeful  and  cheer- 
ful. Tim's  hardest  trial,  an  ordeal  from  which  he  would 
emerge  broken  and  listless,  was  sitting  beside  her  during 
long  hours  while  she  prattled  of  the  holiday  to  be  taken 
when  her  health  was  reestablished,  of  the  fun  they  would 
have  together  when  Tim  achieved  fame  and  fortune  as  a 
novelist. 

Forty-eight  hours  before  she  passed  away,  he  had  an 
illuminating  glimpse  into  her  mind.  And  he  knew  then  that 
this  artless  gaiety  had  been  assumed  for  his  sake.  He  sat 
alone  with  her  in  the  shelter  which  had  been  built  in  the 
garden,  where  she  lived  and  slept. 

"If  I  should  go,  Teem " 

He  pressed  her  wasted  hand,  unable  to  speak. 

"You  will  not  grieve  too  much,  no  ?" 

"There  will  be  nothing  left — nothing." 

"Mi  querido,  do  not  make  it  too  hard  for  me.  I  always 
knew  that  the  home  in  England  was  a  dream,  a  heavenly 
dream.  I  loved  to  dream  of  that,  just  as- 1  loved  to  think 
of  the  dream  children,  which  we  wanted  so  badly." 

"I  have  only  wanted  you." 

"How  happy  we  have  been !  Teem,  I  shall  tell  my  father 
that  you  watched  out  for  me.  But  he  knows,  he  knows. 
And  if  I  must  go,  it  is  well.  It  is  God's  will.  I  am  glad  to 
think  that  I  shall  not  grow  old  and  fat  and  ugly  and  cross 
like  poor  Tia  Maria  Luisa.  Is  it  unkind  to  say  that  ?  Teem, 
you  have  been  so  good  to  me.  Will  you  be  good  to  your- 
self— if  I  go?  Because,"  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  "I 
256 


Adios! 

shall  be  so  unhappy  over  there  if  you  are  miserable  and 
wretched  here.  I  am  afraid  of  that." 

Could  he  lie  at  such  a  moment?    He  remained  silent. 

"You  will  have  your  work.  It  will  be  fine  work,  no? 
Ohe !  I  am  so  sure  of  that —  "  she  sighed  contentedly. 

Tim  stared  at  her,  stupefied  by  grief  and  despair.  He 
tried  to  envisage  himself  a  week  hence — alone.  He  prayed 
for  her  sustaining  faith,  but  with  a  derisive  sense  of  the 
futility  of  such  prayers. 

A  struggle  for  breath  followed.  When  the  paroxysm 
passed,  she  asked  quietly  that  her  Confessor  might  be 
summoned. 

That  night  the  last  solemn  rites  were  administered.  Tim 
knelt  beside  her,  thankful  at  least  that  such  solace  was  a 
true  and  blessed  comfort  to  her. 

Then  she  fell  asleep. 

IV 

Magdalena  flits  through  and  out  of  this  chronicle,  leav- 
ing behind  an  epitaph  cut  deep  in  the  heart  of  her  husband. 
She  belonged  to  a  generation  of  wives  whom  the  shrieking 
sisterhood  of  to-day  denounce  scornfully  as  chattels. 

Sweetly  and  honestly  she  disavowed  interest  in  politics, 
in  high  society,  in  business  affairs.  Art  and  literature 
touched  her  to  mild  enthusiasms. 

A  clever  Englishwoman,  as  a  rule,  exercises  her  clever- 
ness in  being  disagreeable  to  clever  men.  Magdalena's 
greatest  virtue  may  be  described  as  an  incapacity  to  be 
disagreeable  to  anybody.  She  radiated  warmth,  being  in 
the  best  sense  of  a  much  abused  word,  an  amoureuse.  Tim 
was  never  tempted  to  be  unfaithful  to  his  wife  in  thought 
or  act,  because  she  was  proud  of  the  passion  which  she  felt 
for  him.  He  knew  her  to  be  jealous,  jealous  of  women 
with  whom  he  talked  upon  subjects  beyond  her  ken,  jealous 
of  men,  also,  who  might  beguile  him  from  the  home  which 
she  had  created. 

257 


Timothy 

Her  love  became  a  beacon,  keeping  Tim  from  the  reefs 
so  long  as  she  lived.  Had  it  not  been  for  her,  he  might 
have  turned,  as  so  many  did  during  the  dry  years,  to  drink 
and  kindred  dissipations.  He  met  other  women  afterwards, 
who  affirmed  themselves  to  be  beacons,  light-houses,  indeed 
they  were:  but  their  light  seemed  to  be  turned  inwards, 
not  outwards,  revealing  the  machinery  which  produced  it, 
making  the  darkness  without  more  dark. 

Magdalena's  light  was  as  a  lamp  set  in  a  window,  the 
small,  steady  light  gleaming  over  moorland  and  fen  and 
sea  which  guides  the  weary  traveller  home,  which  makes 
him  think  of  logs  crackling  in  an  open  hearth,  of  a  table 
simply  spread,  of  the  laughter  of  children,  of  tender 
encircling  arms  and  sweet  caresses. 


Wason  took  him  away  after  the  funeral.  They  spent 
a  month  together  in  Monterey  County  amongst  the  sigh- 
ing, singing  pines  and  redwoods.  For  Wason's  sake,  not 
his  own,  Tim  hid  his  misery.  They  tramped  the  hills  to- 
gether, returning  to  camp  so  tired  that  kind  sleep  came  to 
them. 

Over  smouldering  logs  Wason  would  talk  of  the  future, 
but  Tim  listened  brooding  upon  the  past. 

He  returned  to  Santa  Barbara,  to  find  a  letter  from  the 
Vicar,  written  upon  receipt  of  the  telegram  which  con- 
tained the  news  of  Magdalena's  death.  Tim  hesitated  be- 
fore he  opened  the  envelope.  He  shrank  with  loathing  from 
stereotyped  condolence. 

"Mv  DEAREST  SON — 

"Can  you  come  home  to  me  ?  I  do  not  urge  it.  You 
must  decide.  I  cannot  write  what  is  in  my  heart:  al- 
though I  can  guess  what  is  in  yours.  You  are  standing 
alone  at  the  Gate  of  Sorrows.  Would  that  I  could  stand 
beside  you  in  this  bitter  hour,  but  that  cannot  be.  I  have 
258 


Adios! 

seen  Daphne.  She  spoke  much  to  me  of  Magdalena. 
Probably  she  will  write  to  you.  I  understood  from  her 
that  your  business  was  of  less  importance  to  you  than  I 
had  fancied.  And  between  the  lines  of  your  more  recent 
letters  I  have  discerned  an  increasing  interest  in  litera- 
ture. If  this  be  so,  wouldn't  this  quiet  village  serve  your 


purpose 


'I  have  not  seen  you,  my  boy,  for  more  than  ten  years. 
My  health  at  best  is  good,  but  life  is  uncertain.     I  have 
much  to  say,  things  which  cannot  be  written. 
"Come  if  you  can,  and  soon. 

"Your  loving  father, 

"TERTIUS  WHITE." 

As  he  read  this  letter  Tim  could  hear  the  cawing  of  the 
rooks  in  the  tall  elms  behind  the  Vicarage:  he  could  see, 
clustering  about  the  church,  the  placid  village  dominated 
by  tower  and  spire.  What  a  cradle  to  lie  down  in  and 
rest!  Merely  to  think  of  Little  Pennington  furnished  a 
soporific  to  a  sleepless  man.  He  beheld  the  Vicar  growing 
old  alone :  he  recalled  the  many  friends  who  would  greet 
him  kindly,  Arthur  Hazel,  Mary  Nightingale,  the  Colonel 
and  his  wife,  the  cottagers  who,  from  time  to  time,  sent 
through  the  Vicar  artless  messages  of  peace  and  good- 
will. His  thoughts  concerning  all  these  dear  people  were 
clear  and  symmetrical  as  crystals. 

And  yet 

To  return  to  Little  Pennington  a  failure,  broken  in  for- 
tune and  heart,  and  health — for  health,  too,  had  yielded 
to  a  strain  terribly  prolonged — to  return  as  a  pensioner 
upon  the  Vicar's  bounty,  to  be  constrained  to  play  a  part 
in  the  genteel  comedy  of  rural  life,  to  render  due  obeisance 
to  Caesar,  to  submit,  for  decency's  sake,  to  social  laws,  so 
irritating  to  men  who  have  lived  in  new  countries,  to  do 
and  say  the  real  right  thing  according  to  Little  Pennington 
tradition ! 

He  told  himself  very  sorrowfully  that  it  was  impossible. 
A  week  later  Daffy's  letter  arrived.  Again  he  hesitated  be- 

259 


Timothy 

fore  he  broke  the  seal.  He  had  feared  that  the  Vicar  might 
say  too  much:  a  greater  fear  possessed  him  that  Daffy 
might  say  too  little. 

"DEAREST  TIM, 

"The  Vicar  has  told  me  of  your  crushing  sorrow.  To 
you  alone  I  can  whisper  that  I,  too,  have  suffered  mis- 
erably, and  because  of  that  I  can  share  your  suffering. 
The  distance  between  us  is  so  dreadful.  Time  and  space 
seem  to  divide  us  inexorably.  Hopelessness  and  misery 
must  be  eating  your  heart  and  mind  away.  I  can  think 
of  nothing  to  comfort  you  but  this :  Magdalena  told  me 
what  you  had  been  to  her:  she  let  me  have  a  glimpse 
of  what  your  inner  life  was,  of  the  devotion  and  tender- 
ness which  she  inspired  in  you,  and  which  you  inspired 
in  her.  That,  Tim,  is  an  imperishable  happiness,  a  happi- 
ness which  is  given  to  few.  Upon  it  I  entreat  you  to 
build  up  your  future,  whatever  that  future  may  be. 

"The  Vicar  says  that  he  has  asked  you  to  come  back 
to  Little  Pennington :  but  something  tells  me  the  time  is 
not  yet  for  that.  It  is  impossible  for  him  to  realise 
what  your  life  in  California  has  been.  I  have  dared  to 
tell  him  to  be  prepared  for  disappointment.  I  have 
paved  the  way  for  a  refusal  which  otherwise  might  have 
wounded  him. 

"I  will  write  again. 

"Your  old  friend 

"DAFFY." 

Tim  put  these  letter::  away  in  a  despatch  box. 


VI 

He  went  back  to  the  office,  to  work  which  had  become 
jejune  and  exasperating.  His  novel  remained  in  a  drawer. 

In  any  case,  he  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  write, 
because  abundant  rains  were  quickening  all  activities  in 
the  state.  He  became  once  more  the  slave  of  business 
260 


Adios! 

no  longer  his,  with  a  vision  of  golden  profits  which  had 
slipped  through  his  fingers.  One  day  he  said  to  Wason : 

"I  can't  stick  it  any  longer." 

"I  understand.  But  more  is  needed  than  change  of 
skies.  Tim,  you  must  try  to  get  out  of  yourself — and 
stay  out." 

"What  a  counsel  of  perfection !  Toss  grief  to  the  winds, 
eh?" 

"No.     Stand  upon  it!    Don't  let  it  stand  upon  you." 

"I  rise  above  it  at  moments,  Wason,  only  to  sink  again 
fathoms  deep  below  it  into  starless  night." 

Wason  was  a  man  of  few  words  :  Hoyt  a  master  of  many. 
Tim  could  speak  with  less  reserves  to  Hoyt,  although  Wason 
had  been,  indeed,  a  tower  of  strength  and  silence.  Hoyt 
spoke  hopefully: 

"You  are  like  me,  Tim.  We  have  laboured  abundantly, 
but  the  harvest  will  be  gleaned  by  others.  Riches  would 
smother  me.  I  should  perish  in  the  effort  to  spend  my 
dollars  before  I  died.  We  are  two  Bohemians.  Let's  admit 
it,  and  have  done  with  it.  You  are  right :  you,  being  you, 
can't  stick  it.  Then  cut  loose !  Follow  your  instinct.  This 
is  a  very  big  state,  but  it  may  be  too  small  for  you.  Tell 
me,  if  you  can,  what  is  in  your  mind  ?" 

"I  am  thinking  of  France." 

He  spoke  at  length  of  Brittany,  of  its  curious  intimate 
charm,  of  its  grey  skies  and  seas,  of  its  twisted  oaks,  its 
legends :  and  the  strange  alluring  effect  of  these  upon  him- 
self when  he  was  a  boy  at  Concarneau.  Hoyt  nodded : 

"Yes,  yes.  I  can  see  you  there.  Lord!  how  I  shall 
miss  you :  but  if  Brittany  calls  persistently — go !  I  came 
West  in  the  same  restless,  hungry  spirit.  I  chucked  good 
prospects.  Well,  well,  I  have  never  looked  back.  I  found, 
more  or  less,  what  I  wanted,  what  suited  me.  I  believe 
that,  ultimately,  you  will  do  the  same." 

Tim's  old  friend,  Mackinnon,  presented  tersely  enough 
the  general  sense  of  the  community — 

"I  think  this  is  suicidal.  You  have  established  yourself 

261 


Timothy 

here.  A  big  opportunity  lurks  round  the  corner.  You 
propose  to  abandon  substance  for  shadow.  I  suppose  this 
is  Hoyt's  doing?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"I  am  much  distressed.  You  have  caught  on.  And  now 
you  talk  to  me  of  letting  go !  I  have  no  patience  with  such 
nonsense." 

The  old  man's  persistence  kept  Tim  awake  throughout 
a  couple  of  restless,  miserable  nights.  He  was  tempted  to 
decide  his  fate  with  a  spin  of  the  coin,  but  he  did  not  do  so. 
He  struck,  instead,  a  careful  balance,  setting  down  all 
assets  and  liabilities.  Fetters  of  any  sort  would,  he  knew, 
consume  him,  eat  into  his  very  bones. 

"I  shall  cut  loose,"  he  decided. 

Finally  he  arranged  with  a  local  attorney  to  forward 
his  only  source  of  income,  the  one-tenth  interest  in  Agua 
Caliente.  He  took  leave  of  his  friends  with  genuine  regret, 
but  a  more  poignant  emotion  was  lacking.  Feeling  seemed 
to  be  dead  within  him,  buried  with  Magdalena.  His  mind, 
for  the  moment,  became  obsessed  by  trifles  which  hitherto 
he  had  contemptuously  disregarded.  He  was  suffering  from 
dyspepsia  and  insomnia.  To  win  back  health,  to  find  some- 
where— anywhere! — a  renewed  interest  in  life,  the  incli- 
nation for  one  honest  laugh,  for  one  stimulating,  pleas- 
urable sensation — these  were  worth  while,  everything  else 
he  dismissed  as  negligible. 

He  travelled  from  San  Francisco  to  New  York  upon  a 
pass  which  the  cashier  of  the  metropolitan  bank  obtained 
for  him.  He  accepted  also  from  the  same  friendly  hands  a 
substantial  cheque,  perhaps  a  thousandth  part  of  the  for- 
tune which  might  have  been  his. 

Alone  upon  the  platform  at  Oakland,  he  watched  his 
fellow-travellers  taking  leave  of  their  friends.  One  hap- 
pened to  be  the  son  of  a  millionaire,  a  polo-player  and 
pleasure-seeker,  whose  cheery  laugh  lacerated  poor  Tim's 
nerves.  He  had  seen  this  young  fellow  at  the  Arlington : 
and  he  feared  that  recognition  impended.  He  would  be  in- 
262 


Adios! 

vited  to  join  a  jolly  crowd.  However,  he  had  changed 
greatly:  and  he  had  only  met  this  boisterous  youth  once. 
So  he  took  his  seat  in  the  sleeper,  and  picked  up  a  book. 
Presently,  what  he  dreaded  came  to  pass.  The  young  fel- 
low caught  sight  of  Tim,  whispered  to  a  friend,  and  ap- 
proached. From  his  expression  it  was  reasonably  certain 
that  a  doubt  concerning  Tim's  identity  was  assailing  him. 
He  said  tentatively : 

"You  are  Mr.  Brown?  We  met  at  Santa  Barbara  two 
years  ago  ?  You  had  a  big  business  ?" 

Tim  said  quietly : 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  have  no  business  in  Santa  Bar- 
bara. My  name  is — White." 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Not  at  all." 

Tim  spoke  in  self-defence.  He  had  not  thought  of  aban- 
doning Brown.  But  he  smiled  derisively,  as  he  sat  re- 
flecting how  pat  the  old  name  had  become  to  his  lips.  Yet 
he  wore  black :  he  felt  black :  he  was — Black. 


263 


BOOK  FOUR:     BLACK 


BOOK  FOUR:    BLACK 
CHAPTER   I 

REHABILITATIONS 


MEANWHILE,  war  had  broken  out  in  South  Africa. 
After  leaving  the  steamer  at  Liverpool,  Tim  trav- 
elled direct  to  London,  and  tried  to  enlist  in  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment, offering  himself  to  a  spurred  and  dashing  sergeant 
whom  he  met  opposite  St.  Martin's  Church.  But,  as  might 
be  expected,  he  failed  to  satisfy  the  Army  doctors.  His 
physique,  when  he  stripped  for  inspection,  provoked  many 
questions.  Nevertheless  the  verdict  was  unanimous: 

"You  are  not  fit  for  active  service." 

Dyspepsia  and  insomnia  had  taken  flesh  and  muscle  from 
his  magnificent  frame.  He  looked  a  wreck  and  felt — 
derelict. 

Upon  the  evening  of  the  day  when  he  was  inspected,  he 
left  England  for  France,  travelling  straight  from  Saint  Malo 
to  Concarneau.  He  could  not  face  his  many  friends  in 
Little  Pennington ;  he  was  too  miserably  ill  to  meet  Daffy. 
Brittany  appealed  irresistibly  as  a  place  wherein  he  had 
been  happy  as  a  boy,  a  place  free  from  disagreeable  asso- 
ciations, where  he  could  do  what  he  pleased  without  kind 
or  unkind  interference. 

Twelve  years  had  sped  by  since  Tim's  first  visit  to  the 
ancient  fishing  port;  and  he  marked  changes  in  the  town 
and  in  the  people.  The  new  and  the  old  towns  lie  side 
by  side,  linked  by  a  common  causeway;  and,  may  be,  in 

267 


Timothy 


the  hearts  of  the  Concarnois  new  ideas  and  old  lie  thus, 
linked  by  a  common  interest,  love  and  fear  of  the  sea  which 
puts  food  into  their  stomachs  and  exacts  ruthless  toll  of 
their  lives. 

Tim  beheld  smug  villas  upon  the  once  wild  sand  dunes 
to  the  north  of  the  new  town,  and  a  miniature  railroad 
which  in  summer-time  brought  many  tourists.  But  for 
nine  months  in  the  year  Concarneau  remained  much  as  he 
remembered  it;  a  big  village  of  fisherfolk  and  peasants 
with  a  sprinkling  of  artists  who  fled  precipitately  when 
their  peace  became  imperilled  by  the  ubiquitous  tripper. 

The  railroad — he  soon  perceived — had  affected  the  peo- 
ple in  many  subtle  ways,  bringing  them  into  closer  touch 
with  a  civilisation  regarded  blinkingly  as  destructive  of 
cherished  traditions  and  superstitions.  The  old  simple  faith 
in  things  unseen  was  crumbling  away.  The  language 
and  costume  remained.  Tim  thought  of  the  Bretons  as 
children  sadly  watching  an  incoming  tide  which  must  sweep 
away  their  castles  built  of  sand. 

He  became  a  pensionnaire  in  the  Hotel  des  Voyageurs,  an 
old  granite-built  inn  facing  the  quay  and  market-place, 
an  inn  much  beloved  of  artists.  He  rented,  also,  a  large 
garret  in  a  house  hard  by  which  would  serve  as  a  sanctuary. 

The  mere  sight  of  the  sea  made  him  feel  better. 

He  watched  the  men  and  women  at  work,  inhaling  the 
strong  fresh  air  blowing  straight  from  the  Atlantic;  he 
talked  to  them,  and  they  chattered  back  shyly  at  first,  but 
afterwards  frankly  and  joyously.  His  days  became  more 
tolerable;  his  nights  remained  bad.  He  lay  awake,  hour 
after  hour,  thinking  of  his  wife,  ravaged  by  futile  rage  and 
misery,  cursing  the  traps  and  treacheries,  the  multiform 
ambiguities  of  life,  and  the  final  overwhelming  mystery 
of  death. 

When   he  tried   to   work,   he  became   strangely  giddy. 
Twice  he  fainted,  struggling  back  to  consciousness  against 
his  will,  wondering  why  some  malignant  fate  ordained  that 
he  must  live. 
268 


Rehabilitations 

Ultimately,  he  abandoned  all  idea  of  writing  till  his  health 
improved. 

ii 

For  a  time  he  shunned  the  artists,  who  kindly  let  him 
alone,  but  gradually  he  became  intimate  with  some  of  them. 
Cabral,  the  sculptor,  was  still  the  great  man  in  Concarneau, 
but  Cabral  was  away  in  Paris  and  not  likely  to  return  till 
March  or  April.  Briand,  the  painter  of  grey  skies  and  seas, 
lived. in  Paris  with  Cabral;  they  would  return  together — 
so  the  good  landlady  said. 

There  was  an  Englishman,  a  poet,  with  a  dark  melan- 
choly face,  who  talked  much  with  Tim,  but  always  of  ab- 
stractions. He,  too,  had  suffered  bludgeonings  which  ab- 
sinthe helped  him  to  forget.  Another  absintheur,  named 
Vilard,  a  painter  of  much  talent,  exercised  a  certain  attrac- 
tion, because  life  had  dealt  unkindly  with  him.  Vilard  and 
Lasher,  the  poet,  knew  Gaugin,  the  Impressionist,  who  was 
ending  his  life  in  a  tiny  hamlet  some  five  and  twenty  miles 
to  the  south  of  Concarneau.  Add  to  these  a  burly,  black- 
bearded  Frenchman  from  the  Midi,  the  antithesis  of  Vilard, 
and  you  have  a  first  glimpse  of  Tim's  companions  and  fel- 
low-pensionnaires.  The  landlady  spoke  of  the  three  as 
"mes  anciens."  They  lunched  and  dined  together,  drank 
coffee  together,  met  at  the  same  hour  for  the  evening 
aperitif,  and  talked  everlastingly  till  it  was  time  to  go  to 
bed.  Art  to  each  was  not  one-fourth  of  life,  but,  seem- 
ingly, all  of  it! 

Vilard  persuaded  Tim  to  begin  painting  again.  Vilard 
happened  to  be  an  admirable  draughtsman  and  anatomist; 
and  in  his  day  had  been  massier  of  one  of  the  big  French 
ateliers.  His  sense  of  colour  had  slowly  degenerated  into 
nonsense  under  the  sinister  influence  of  Gauguin  and  ab- 
sinthe, but  his  skill  with  charcoal  remained.  He  took  Tim 
in  hand,  accepting  after  much  protest  a  small  salary.  The 
big  fellow  from  the  Midi,  Jerome  Mercier,  told  Tim  that  he 

269 


Timothy 

ought  to  draw  diligently  for  at  least  a  year  before  he  began 
to  paint.  Mercier  affected  the  costume  and  the  manners  of 
a  fisherman.  He  owned  a  boat  in  which  he  went  sailing 
with  Tim  in  all  weathers,  and  he  was  reputed  to  be  the 
strongest  man  in  Concarneau.  Morning  and  evening  he 
exercised  himself  with  huge  dumbbells,  and  above  his  bed 
hung  a  small  revolver,  tied  to  the  wall  with  blue  riband. 
He  shewed  this  to  Tim,  remarking  solemnly : 

"It  is— loaded." 

"For  what?"  Tim  asked. 

Mercier  rolled  his  great  brown  eyes.  Tim  inferred 
that  the  pistol  might  be  used  against  Mercier's  enemies, 
if  they  raised  against  him  a  weapon  which  he  abhorred — 
ridicule.  This  great,  rough,  blustering  giant  worked  in 
pastel  most  delightfully,  although  Vilard  spoke  contemptu- 
ously of  his  work  as — shik ! 

In  February,  Otis  arrived  from  Paris,  an  American 
painter  of  marines,  a  tall,  thin  enthusiast  to  whom  Tim  took 
an  instant  and  lasting  affection.  Otis  knew  California;  as 
a  young  man  he  "taught  school"  in  some  obscure  foothill 
town.  For  many  years  he  had  lived  in  France. 

By  this  time  Tim's  health  was  mending,  although  any 
mental  or  imaginative  work  brought  back  the  attacks  of 
giddiness.  He  drew  in  the  open,  took  long  walks  with 
Otis,  and  sailed  with  Mercier.  None  of  these  Bohemians 
asked  questions.  Probably  they  suffered  from  curiosity, 
but  hid  its  ravages  like  Spartans  and  gentlemen.  Traffic 
with  the  outside  world  concerned  them  not  at  all.  They 
accepted  calmly  the  presence  of  English  troops  in  the 
Transvaal  at  a  time  when  France  was  gnashing  her  teeth 
thereat. 

Vilard  said  magnificently : 

"Such  talk,  look  you,  smells  of  the  footlights.  Now  I 
detest  the  theatre!" 

Then  he  would  continue,  waving  the  pipe  which  was  al- 
ways being  relighted :  "For  me,  I  abominate  this  bourgeois 
France,  these  swaggering  fools  of  politicians  seeking  to  line 
270 


Rehabilitations 

their  own  nests  at  the  expense  of  my  country.  I  spit  on 
them,  canaille !  I  despise  the  crowd.  Avec  ma  pipe  et  ma 
palette  je  suis  content." 

A  little  bonne  happened  to  be  passing  the  small  marble- 
topped  table  at  which  Vilard  and  Tim  were  sitting.  She 
smiled,  knowingly,  murmuring  to  Vilard: 

"Avec  votre  petit  verre  d'absinthe  aussi." 

Vilard  laughed,  and  ordered  another. 

Herbert  Lasher  read  his  poems  to  Tim.  They  were 
mostly  concerned  with  dear  dead  women,  thin  wraiths  of 
Lasher's  imagination,  fluttering  wanly  amongst  poppies, 
with  the  odour  of  death  about  them.  Lasher  quoted  Ver- 
laine,  whom  he  had  met,  with  Bibi  la  Puree  at  the  Cafe 
Harcourt  in  Paris.  He  was  making  a  metrical  translation  of 
Baudelaire,  which  he  hoped  might  appear  in  "The  Yellow 
Book."  The  little  man  was  singularly  gentle,  although,  like 
Vilard,  he  would  burst  into  passionate  and  withering  con- 
demnation of  facile  success  achieved  by  commonplace  talent. 
Both  Vilard  and  he  suffered  from  what  Parisians  call  la 
nostalgic  de  la  boue.  Under  the  influence  of  absinthe  they 
seemed  to  prefer  the  gutter  to  a  four-post  bed! 

But  they  remained,  drunk  or  sober,  consistently  kind  to 
Tim,  who,  indeed,  inspired  a  notable  copy  of  verses  to 
which  "The  Yellow  Book"  offered  belated  hospitality.  Vil- 
ard, too,  made  an  astounding  portrait  of  our  hero  in  black 
and  white  which  hangs  for  all  eyes  to  see  in  one  of  the 
Concarneau  cafes. 

Nobody,  as  yet,  had  identified  the  thin,  haggard  man  of 
thirty  with  the  merry  boy  of  eighteen,  except  the  barber 
near  the  hotel,  a  round-bodied,  round-faced  Breton,  who 
would  shave  Tim  for  a  couple  of  sous  and  then  sprinkle 
his  face  with  toilet  vinegar,  saying  gaily : 

"Qa  pique,  mais  c,a  fait  du  bien." 

He  said  at  once:  "I  have  seen  Monsieur  before,  long 
ago." 

"I  came  here  for  ten  days  when  I  was  a  boy." 

271 


Timothy 

"Ah,  yes !  One  returns  to  the  province.  There  is  a 
charm.  But  it's  passing.  That  accursed  railroad!" 

Then  the  little  man  would  declaim  superbly,  a  la  Vilard, 
abusing  jerry-builders  and  les  gens  de  commerce  and  all 
and  sundry  who  were  tampering  with  ancient  customs,  tap- 
ping his  chest  and  saying: 

"I,  too,  am  an  artist  and  the  friend  of  artists — what !" 

"You  are,"  Tim  would  reply  soothingly. 

"I  am,  Monsieur.  They  owe  me  money.  I  may  not  get 
paid,  but  I  care  nothing,  nothing,  you  understand,  nothing." 

"I  do  understand,"  said  Tim. 

This,  he  decided,  was  part  of  the  charm  of  a  place  which, 
admittedly,  smelt  abominably  when  the  tide  was  out.  The 
fishermen,  the  sardine  girls,  the  peasants,  exhibited,  often 
quite  unconsciously,  a  curious  sympathy  with  artists.  And 
the  climate  seemed  to  touch  even  the  gerry-built  villas  with 
magical  ringers,  transmuting  crude  green  and  red  and  blue 
into  delicate  pink  and  grey  and  lavender. 

Tim  absorbed  it  all,  as  a  man  absorbs  moisture  when 
he  is  parched  with  thirst,  as  a  field  absorbs  dew.  The 
strong  winds  from  the  Atlantic,  the  soft  land  breezes,  the 
cool  grey  skies,  the  wet  sands,  the  ever-changing  seas,  the 
quiet  landscape,  wrought  subtly  with  his  tired  tissues  of 
mind  and  body. 

in 

Cabral  and  Briand  arrived  in  April,  when  patches  of 
red  clover  were  beginning  to  encarmine  the  fields.  Tim 
felt  nervous  about  meeting  the  great  men,  but  they  had 
quite  forgotten  him.  Cabral  stared  hard,  but,  as  he  ex- 
plained afterwards,  he  was  immensely  struck  by  Tim's 
physical  symmetry,  and  contemplating,  at  first  sight,  the 
possibility  of  persuading  a  stranger  to  pose.  With  this 
latent  in  his  mind,  he  made  himself  vastly  agreeable  to  Tim, 
and  looked  over  his  many  studies,  repeating:  "Yes,  yes, 
you  have  talent,"  with  an  air  which  suggested  that  much 
272 


Rehabilitations 

more  was  necessary.  He  and  Briand,  however,  were  singu- 
larly free  from  the  affectations  of  genius.  Each  met  the 
younger  man  on  equal  terms,  and  rather  gloried  in  it. 

"I  am  a  good  comrade,"  said  Cabral. 

"That  is  perfectly  true,  mon  vieux,"  Briand  would  reply. 

Cabral  took  the  head  of  the  table  at  which  the  artists 
dined,  and  dominated  all  by  a  rough  eloquence  and  rude 
vitality.  He  had  peasant's  blood  in  his  veins,  and  a  peasant's 
thrift.  It  was  good  to  hear  him  exclaim :  "Now,  you  will 
have  a  chopine  with  me,"  proffering  the  cider  of  the  coun- 
try (supplied  free)  as  if  it  were  a  bottle  of  vin  de  cachet. 
Tim  offered,  in  return,  cigars,  accepted  as  tributes  to 
genius. 

Briand  worked  in  the  open  air,  making  endless  studies 
of  sky  and  sea,  forever  chasing  the  elusive  curves  of  waves 
rippling  over  wet  sands.  Otis  said  that  Briand  had  "cor- 
nered" this  particular  subject.  He  added: 

"That's  the  game  nowadays.  One  must  go  bald-headed 
for  a  trade-mark.  Briand  signs  his  pictures,  but  it's  a 
waste  of  time.  I'd  like  to  steal  some  of  his  little  tricks,  but 
he  won't  let  anyone  except  Cabral  watch  him  at  work.  He 
cleans  his  palette  every  day.  It's  a  fact.  And  locks  up  his 
colour-box.  A  very  downy  bird." 

Something  in  Tim,  some  smouldering  cinder — all  that 
was  left  of  Californian  flames — 'made  him  scheme  to  find 
out  Briand's  tricks.  He  said,  in  the  presence  of  Cabral: 

"If  I  could  see  Monsieur  Briand  at  work ?" 

Briand  replied  hastily: 

"Impossible." 

"Pif-f-f !"  exclaimed  Cabral.  "I  shall  make  it  my  affair 
that  you  do.  It's  understood." 

Briand  protested,  quite  in  vain,  for  Cabral's  chaff  was 
irresistible.  But  his  vanity  was  flattered  by  Tim's  insistence 
and  enthusiasm.  Ultimately,  Tim  became  an  unattached 
disciple.  Briand  acclaimed  in  him  a  sense  of  colour,  and 
prepared  a  palette  for  his  use.  Tim,  remembering  Hoyt's 
injunction,  played  the  sedulous  ape.  Indeed,  so  clever  was 

273 


Timothy 


he  in  stealing  Briand's  methods  that  he  actually  deceived 
the  clever  Otis,  showing  the  American  a  small  study,  which 
provoked  the  remark : 

"Say — did  old  Briand  make  you  a  present  of  that?" 

•"It's  mine." 

"By  Jove !  So  it  is !  Well,  you'd  better  be  careful ! 
Copying  is  the  devil.  Yours?  I'm  a  liar  if  it  didn't  take 
me  in.  But,  no  fooling,  the  old  man  touched  it  up  for 
you?" 

"Not  a  touch." 

"I'm  simply  damned." 

During  the  summer  holidays,  Otis  and  Tim  and  Vilard 
retired  to  a  small  hamlet  beyond  the  ken  of  tourists.  They 
returned  to  Concarneau  in  October.  Cabral,  after  a  search- 
ing survey  of  Tim,  said  brusquely : 

"Now,  I  am  ready  for  you.  You  look  fine,  my  boy. 
Yes;  I  propose  to  immortalise  you  as  a  Discus  Thrower. 
You  have  the  body  and  the  head.  The  head  above  all !  I 
have  been  searching  Paris  for  that.  You  see,  my  friend,  I 
want  the  expression,  the  look  of  the  athlete  who  is  striv- 
ing to  do  something  beyond  his  powers.  A  tense  look,  an 
anxious,  eager  look.  You  have  that.  But  it  is  going. 
Soon  you  will  lose  it.  Shall  I  call  it  the  last  look  of  youth? 
When  can  you  pose  for  me?" 

"Name  of  a  name !"  exclaimed  Tim. 

"What?  You  refuse?  And  I  have  done  you  favours. 
I  have  been  a  comrade — I " 

Tim  cut  him  short. 

"I'll  pose,  cher  maitre." 

Cabral  embraced  him  on  both  cheeks. 


IV 

The  results  of  this  posing  had  far-reaching  effects,  which 
will  be  set  forth  when  the  time  comes.     For  the  moment 
it  brought  Tim  into  intimate  contact  with  a  man  of  charac- 
274 


Rehabilitations 

ter  and  influence.  Cabral  could  no  more  help  imposing 
his  views  upon  others  than  the  sun  can  withhold  light 
and  heat.  Rodin  and  he  stood  for  primitive,  elemental 
forces,  which  they  expressed  in  clay  and  marble.  They 
developed  in  others  that  thrusting  power  which  impels  men 
to  do  anything  rather  than  stand  still.  Vilard  and  Lasher 
were  dreamers,  and  in  his  heart  Tim  was  aware  of  this. 
He  had  sunk  to  a  low  level  through  sheer  ill  health  when 
he  met  these  degenerates,  and  their  philosophy — so  far  as 
it  went — exercised  no  evil  effect,  because  he  needed  com- 
plete rest  after  years  of  strenuous  endeavour.  He  might 
have  cast  himself  with  them  at  the  feet  of  la  reine  verte, 
and  probably  would  have  done  so,  thereby  ruining  his 
health,  had  not  that  health  become  to  him  the  object  of  his 
solicitude.  Vilard  and  Lasher,  poor  devils!  had  never 
known  the  robustious  joy  of  perfect  health.  The  memory 
of  that,  and  all  it  included,  sustained  Tim  in  hours  of  deep 
dejection.  The  doctor  whom  he  consulted  shortly  after  he 
reached  Concarneau  told  him  that  he  was  sound  organically, 
and,  when  prescribing  a  rigorous  diet,  particularly  warned 
his  patient  against  alcohol  as  a  stimulant  to  jaded  and  sensi- 
tive nerves.  He  said  almost  brutally: 

"It  means  suicide,  Monsieur." 

Cabral  became  excited  when  he  saw  his  model  stripped, 
running  his  short  spatulate  fingers  over  Tim's  muscles,  and 
taking  accurate  measures,  which  he  noted  down  upon  an 
anthropometric  chart.  Tim's  interest  in  these  proceedings 
quickened,  when  Cabral  said: 

"You  are  perfectly  proportioned.  I  have  never  had  such 
a  model,  but,  all  the  same,  look  you,  your  muscles  can  be 
further  developed.  Talk  to  Mercier!  Exercise  with  him! 
I  insist.  I  see  in  you  my  masterpiece.  You  will  not  refuse 
to  help  me?" 

Tim  made  a  grimace,  but  he  said  with  a  faint  stirring 
of  vanity: 

"If  you  could  have  seen  me  five  years  ago !" 

Cabral  swooped  upon  this. 

275 


T  i  m  o  t  Ji  y 

"Good!  What  has  been,  may  be  again  at  your  age.  I 
shall  begin  with  the  head,  but  the  body  is  not  quite  worthy 
of  me.  You  must  add  inches  to  the  pectorals,  the  triceps, 
the  abdominal  muscles  and  the  thighs  and  calf.  An  all- 
round  development — what?  Mercier  is  our  man." 

"Why  not  get  Mercier  for  the  body?" 

"Hercules  never  appealed  to  me.  These  big,  over-muscled 
men  are  lazy.  I  want  the  speed  and  symmetry  of  an 
Apollo.  You  will  do  what  I  ask?  On  my  knees  I  ask  it." 

Fired  by  this  Gallic  enthusiasm,  Tim  went  to  Mercier, 
and  presented  himself  as  a  pupil.  Mercier  insisted  upon  an 
exhaustive  examination,  and  became  nearly  as  enthusiastic 
as  Cabral.  He  added  majestically : 

"For  the  rest — if  the  Master  commands,  it  is  for  us  to 
obey.  I  shall  feel  honoured  in  carrying  out  his  orders. 
With  you,  my  son,  I  can  perform  miracles." 

Accordingly  Tim  submitted  to  the  daily  discipline  of  clubs 
and  dumbbells  under  the  tutelage  of  an  expert  who  under- 
stood exactly  what  was  needed. 

The  result  surprised  nobody  more  than  Tim  himself. 
Sleep  came  back  to  him,  and  an  immense  appetite.  Cabral 
rubbed  his  hands,  chuckling  as  he  recorded  the  increased 
measurements. 

"Ca  va  bien!    Continuez!" 

Tim  had  to  encounter  volleys  of  chaff  at  the  dinner  table 
and  in  the  cafes,  but  he  was  cheered  on  by  the  women. 

"Monsieur  s'embellit  enormement,"  was  the  flattering 
verdict  of  his  landlady  and  the  bevy  of  hand-maidens. 

In  fine,  as  before,  youth  and  health  and  strength  came 
back  to  him.  His  body  below  the  throat  shone  like  white 
satin.  But  the  mind  remained  black. 

Cabral,  however,  having  finished  Tim's  head  to  his  satis- 
faction, or  rather  as  approximately  to  his  satisfaction  as  any 
genius  can  attain,  said  curtly: 

"I  have  the  look  I  wanted.  In  return  I  must  take  that 
look  from  your  face,  for  it  indicates  an  uneasy  mind,  my 
friend.  It  is  impossible  to  deceive  me.  You  are  suffering. 
276 


Rehabilitations 

I  ask  myself — why?  You  are  still  a  young  man.  Yet  I 
perceive  that  you  look  back  instead  of  ahead.  That  is 
rank  blasphemy." 

Bit  by  bit  Cabral's  sympathy  extracted  details. 

"Yes,  yes,  all  is  explained,  but  life  remains.  You  have 
work  to  do.  Good!  Do  it." 

Tim  nodded,  not  very  hopefully.  He  had  reached  the 
"sticking"  stage.  Also,  he  was  well  aware  that  painting 
exacted  a  long  and  patient  apprenticeship.  Otis  told  him 
cheerfully  that  three  years  at  the  Beaux  Arts  would  give 
him  the  necessary  technique.  Three  years,  the  irreducible 
minimum!  It  seemed  an  eternity.  Should  he  abandon 
painting  and  turn  finally  to  writing? 

The  nerve  force  to  make  a  decision  so  vital  was  still 
lacking.  He  temporised,  which,  perhaps,  was  wise.  And  he 
remembered  the  Vicar's  words : 

"Sooner  or  later  you  will  find  out  what  you  can  do, 
and  then  you  will  do  it." 

Cabral  finished  The  Discus  Thrower  and  returned  with 
Briand  to  Paris. 

A  year  had  passed. 


The  Discus  Thrower,  exhibited  at  the  May  Salon,  added 
lustre  to  Cabral's  reputation.  Incidentally  its  success  as  the 
statue  of  the  year  lured  Tim  to  Paris,  where  he  passed  a 
somewhat  riotous  month.  Pleasure  beckoned  to  him  with 
a  beguilement  only  to  be  measured  by  those  who  have  drunk 
to  the  dregs  the  cup  of  Pain.  In  Paris,  at  a  small  hotel, 
he  met  two  Englishmen  of  his  own  age,  public-school  men, 
who  had  remained  in  the  conventional  groove.  Their 
prejudices,  their  absorption  in  games  and  sport,  their  con- 
tempt for  "outsiders,"  their  utter  lack  of  any  sense  of  pro- 
portion amazed  Tim.  He  had  not  the  smallest  notion,  till 
then,  of  how  far  he  had  travelled  from  them.  They  were 
"doing"  Paris,  with  an  uneasy  conviction  that  Paris  was 

277 


Timothy 

"doing"  them.  And  yet  they  appealed  to  Tim  enormously, 
because  they  looked  so  clean,  so  well-groomed,  and  were, 
on  their  own  ground,  such  artlessly  good  fellows.  They 
reminded  him  of  Jocelyn  and  Wynne.  Time  seemed  to 
stand  still  for  men  of  that  type.  They  remained  eternally 
young  and  almost  childish,  particularly  when  they  affected 
the  wisdom  to  which  in  the  nature  of  things  they  could 
never  attain.  Brief  intimacy  with  them  justified  Tim  in 
keeping  away  from  Little  Pennington.  His  absence  from 
the  happy  village  lay  upon  his  conscience,  but  he  left  it 
there  with  a  lighter  heart  after  meeting  these  compatriots, 
because  he  learned  from  them  something  of  vital  im- 
portance, which  brought  back  vividly  that  last  terrible  scene 
between  the  Vicar  and  himself. 

They  had  been  talking  politics.  Tim's  new  acquaintances 
were  Unionists  and  presumably  Churchmen,  although  their 
behaviour  in  Paris  did  not  warrant  the  latter  assumption. 
Tim  listened,  rather  bored,  to  opinions  culled,  for  the  most 
part,  from  the  Tory  press,  and  then,  with  an  unexpectedness 
which  made  his  heart  throb,  one  young  man  remarked : 

"My  governor  says  that  if  Carteret  had  not  been  drowned 
we  should  have  had  a  Tory  Democracy  with  Carteret  him- 
self as  Prime  Minister.  He  was  certainly  our  most  bril- 
liant man  at  the  time.  And  it's  a  humiliating  fact  that  we've 
no  one  like  him." 

"Who  was  Carteret?"  asked  Tim. 

He  guessed  that  they  were  speaking  of  his  father.  Of 
that  father,  as  we  know,  he  knew  nothing  except  that  he 
had  been  a  brilliant  politician  who  went  down  in  his  yacht 
in  Dublin  Bay.  Tim  left  the  matter  at  that,  not  even 
seeking  to  find  out  his  father's  name,  although  curious  in 
regard  to  what  it  was.  Such  information  is  not  to  be  picked 
up  in  the  foc'sle  of  a  sailing  ship.  By  the  time  Tim  reached 
San  Francisco,  where  such  curiosity  might  have  been  satis- 
fied, he  decided  that  he  hated  his  father,  because  he  had 
brought  such  terrible  trouble  to  his  mother.  And  then,  after 
reading  the  Vicar's  letter,  he  accepted  finally  his  guardian 
278 


Rehabilitations 

as  sire,  casting  the  other  to  the  limbo  of  forgetfulness. 
The  Vicar  was — as  he  had  pointed  out — Tim's  legal  father. 
The  other  lay  dead  beneath  the  sea.  Let  him  remain 
there ! 

And  now,  suddenly,  he  had  risen  from  the  dead,  and 
stood  facing  his  son,  a  pale  ghost. 

"Who  was  Carteret?"  repeated  the  young  man.  "By 
Jove!  White,  you  must  have  forgotten  your  English  his- 
tory." 

*  "I  have,"  said  Tim.  He  could  remember  Carteret's  name, 
nothing  more.  "Tell  me  what  you  know." 

"That  isn't  much,"  said'  the  other  modestly. 

"Carteret  was  a  cousin  of  sorts  to  the  present  duke.  He 
had  the  ability  and  the  unscrupulousness  of  the  family. 
He  began  his  political  life  as  a  Radical,  but  came  over  to 
us.  Just  before  his  death  he  started  a  party  of  his  own." 

"When  did  he  die?"  asked  Tim,  wishing  to  make  sure. 

"Some  time  in  the  sixties.  Before  I  was  born.  Went 
down  in  Dublin  Bay.  There's  a  nailing  good  life  of  him. 
'Rupert  Carteret  and  His  Times.' " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tim. 


279 


CHAPTER   II 

POT-BOILING 


AT  Galignani's  Tim  bought  his  father's  biography  and 
carried  it  back  to  the  hotel  to  read,  devouring  it  at 
one  sitting,  turning  the  last  page  long  after  midnight.  Sleep 
was  impossible,  so  he  wandered  into  the  streets  till  he 
came  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  where  he  sat  down  upon 
a  bench,  giving  himself  up  to  thoughts  racing  through  his 
brain.  Never  since  the  death  of  Magdalena  had  he  felt 
so  alive,  so  tingling  with  the  craving  to  be  and  to  do  which 
he  recognised  as  an  inheritance — all  in  fact  that  a  father 
of  like  temperament  had  bequeathed  to  an  unknown  son. 

The  biography  of  Rupert  Carteret  had  been  admirably 
done  by  a  kinsman  who  knew  him  well,  an  intimate  friend 
and  yet  a  sagacious  critic.  In  fine,  Tim  beheld  his  father 
for  the  first  time  as  portrayed  by  a  master  hand ;  he  knew 
that  the  picture  must  be  true  to  life,  for  life  informed  it. 
There  were  several  illustrations;  Carteret  as  child,  as  boy, 
as  youth,  as  man.  In  each  Tim  recognised  himself.  He 
resembled  his  father  rather  than  his  mother.  L'enfant  de 
1'amour  resemble  toujours  au  pere! 

His  father ! 

Why  had  he  been  so  incredibly  foolish  as  to  keep  knowl- 
edge of  such  a  sire  at  bay?  Heavens!  Here  was  a  docu- 
ment by  which  he  could  interpret  himself.  The  father 
lived  again  in  his  son.  He,  too,  had  suffered  abominably, 
linked  for  many  years  to  an  insane  wife,  whom  he  had  mar- 
ried for  love.  He  had  seen  the  mind  of  his  beloved  die 
by  inches,  while  the  body  changed  also  from  a  thing  of 
280 


Pot-Boiling^ 


beauty  into  something  worse  than  death.  He  had  lost  a 
fair  fortune  and  made  another.  He  had  been  desperately 
ill,  and  had  regained  his  health.  He  had  tried  half  a  dozen 
avenues,  to  Fame  before  he  found  the  one  leading  to  West- 
minster. He  had  distinguished  himself  at  Oxford,  at  the 
Bar,  as  a  writer,  as  an  amateur  actor.  For  the  first  half 
of  the  book,  it  seemed  to  Tim  that  he  was  reading  about 
himself,  of  successive  phases  through  which  he  had  passed, 
although  Rupert  Carteret  had  been  always  in  and  of  the 
great  world.  One  phrase  was  illuminating — 

"Behold  a  chameleon!" 

And  again — 

"Like  so  many  cadets  of  his  illustrious  family — a  rebel." 

Yes ;  he  had  set  even  ducal  authority  at  defiance,  allying 
himself  with  Bright  and  Cobden,  espousing  the  cause  of 
Labour,  and  then  turning  again,  towards  the  last,  to  the 
Tories,  inciting  them  in  vain  to  justify  their  position  and 
opportunities  as  protectors  of  the  poor.  Admittedly  Rupert 
Carteret  had  struggled  desperately  in  his  own  interests, 
fired  by  an  ambition  half-noble,  half-ignoble,  seeking  to 
impose  his  personality  upon  all  with  whom  he  came  in  con- 
tact, unscrupulous  politically,  not  too  scrupulous  morally, 
for  after  his  wife's  incarceration  in  a  private  asylum  he 
seemed  to  have  had  endless  affairs  with  other  women ;  and 
yet,  from  first  to  last,  a  light — now  flickering  faintly,  now 
burning  with  steady  beam — shone  about  him,  a  divine  spark 
of  sympathy  in  and  for  others,  which  revealed  the  man's 
essential  humanity  and  greatness. 

Of  Tim's  mother  not  a  word. 

The  absence  of  any  mention  of  her  touched  Tim  pro- 
foundly. He  could  not  doubt  that  this  secret  love  had  been 
guarded  jealously,  hidden  even  from  the  keen  eyes  of 
Carteret's  Boswell.  And  he  could  understand  the  tre- 
mendous attraction  which  such  a  man,  so  charming,  so 
versatile,  so  impulsive  and  enthusiastic,  must  have  exer- 
cised over  a  lovely  Irish  woman,  young  and  ardent,  a  pris- 
oner in  the  house  of  an  evil  liver  and  spendthrift.  He 

281 


Timothy 

could  understand   how  inevitable  had  been  her  fall,  and 
how  sweet  her  surrender  to  such  a  conqueror. 

Every  hard  thought — and  there  were  many — which  he 
had  entertained  concerning  this  hapless  pair  was  melted  by 
pity  and  sympathy.  His  tears  fell  drenchingly  upon  their 
misfortunes.  He  forgot  his  own. 


ii 

He  returned  to  Concarneau  to  attack  his  art  with  a  zest 
and  determination  which  excited  derisive  comments  in 
Lasher  and  Vilard  and  high  commendation  from  Otis. 
Cabral  remained  in  Paris.  Briand  and  he  came  back  to 
Brittany  in  October.  Cabral  was  immensely  struck  by  the 
progress  made.  Tim  had  essayed  portraiture ;  his  studies  of 
the  sardineres  were  excellent  from  the  point  of  view  of 
likeness;  but  Cabral  grumbled  at  too  facile  modelling  and 
brush-work.  Briand  turned  from  them  impatiently.  He 
loathed  dirt  and  ignorance. 

"La  bete  humaine!"  he  said  scornfully.  "Je  ne  cherche 
pas  ca." 

And  then  Cabral  would  reply  furiously: 
"C'est  un  vrai  malheur  pour  toi,  vieux  imbecile !" 
That  was  the  unbridgable  difference  between  the  two 
men,  which,  possibly,  inasmuch  as  each  was  artist  to  his 
finger-tips,  accounted  for  their  comradeship.  The  work  of 
both  ran  upon  parallel  lines,  there  was  no  possibility  of 
rivalry  or  comparison.  To  Cabral  nothing  mattered  ex- 
cept men  and  women  and  children;  Briand  sought  and 
found  his  inspiration  upon  unfrequented  stretches  of  gleam- 
ing sands,  reflecting  tenderly  soft  little  clouds  with  edges 
of  foaming  light. 

However,  Briand  said  seriously: 
"You  have  talent;  and  you  see  beneath  the  surface." 
Otis,   too,   admitted   originality   in   Tim's   backgrounds. 
He  used  vivid  colour  daringly,  in  defiance  of  academic 
282 


Pot-Boiling 

standards.  Otis  had  been  a  pupil  of  Bonnard  and  also  of 
Bougereau ;  he  had  worked  much  at  Barbizon,  treading  in 
the  steps  of  Jean  Frangois  Millet  and  Bastien  Lepage.  But 
he  had  abandoned  ugly  peasants  and  beautiful  nymphs  for 
seascape,  which  he  was  beginning  to  handle  masterfully 
upon  lines  exactly  opposite  to  Briand's,  after  the  manner 
of  Stanhope  Forbes.  But  at  the  back  of  his  mind  re- 
mained the  old  conventions.  Backgrounds,  he  contended, 
should  be  merely  indicated.  Velasquez  understood  that! 
Why  try  to  improve  upon  him? 

"Colour  is  my  fancy,"  said  Tim. 

"Well,  I  can't  deny  that  you  are  grappling  with  the  mod- 
ern principle.  Hit  'em  in  the  eye.  That's  what  the  bloom- 
ing public  demands." 

"Why  not?    I've  been  hit  in  the  eye  myself." 

During  these  years,  Tim  lived  upon  the  one-tenth  inter- 
est from  Agua  Caliente  which  was  remitted  from  Santa 
Barbara  every  six  months.  What  he  had  saved  out  of  this 
remittance  was  spent  during  his  riotous  month  in  Paris. 
The  attorney,  who  attended  to  this  affair,  wrote  hopefully 
of  a  renewed  prosperity  in  the  Golden  State,  with  a  sub- 
acid  flavour  of  regret  and  disgust  because  Tim  had  "let 
go"  too  soon.  He  announced  the  discovery  of  oil,  and  the 
intention  of  the  Agua  Caliente  Syndicate  to  begin  boring 
upon  a  large  scale.  He  concluded :  "Oil  may  make  you  a 
rich  man  yet." 

Tim  was  much  elated,  but  premature  thanksgiving  oozed 
out  of  him  when  his  Christmas  dividend  arrived  at  Con- 
carneau — split  exactly  in  half.  His  attorney  recited  the 
facts,  which  were  cold  indeed.  The  syndicate  had  sunk  two 
deep  wells  without  finding  the  lubricating  fluid.  Tim  was 
entitled  to  one-tenth  of  the  net  profits;  and  the  profits  for 
the  year  had  been  subject  to  this  damnable  drain. 

"I  must  try  to  sell  some  stuff,"  said  Tim  to  Otis.  "If 
they  go  on  boring,  which  they  talk  of  doing,  there  may  be 
no  profits  at  all." 

"Quite,"  replied  Otis.  "This  will  buck  you  up,  Tim.  I 

283 


Timothy 

never  knew  a  remittance  man  who  was  not  more  or  less 
the  worse  for  being  dependent  on  it." 

"It  has  saved  me." 

"Up  to  a  point.  But  there's  nothing  like  getting  into  the 
open  market." 

Tim  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Have  I  the  cheek  to  sell  portraits?" 

"That's  exactly  what  you  have,  old  man.  The  cheek 
to  sell  'em  is  a  bigger  asset  than  the  ability  to  paint  'em. 
I'll  find  you  customers." 

"Right!" 

in 

The  humiliating  sense  that  he  was  a  remittance  man 
produced  a  healthy  inflammation.  He  perceived  that  his 
friends  regarded  him  as  an  amateur,  burdened  by  this  re- 
mittance, above  or  below  the  necessity  of  straining  every 
nerve  to  save  himself  from  starvation.  And  behind  this 
lay  the  grim  determination  to  keep  away  from  the  Vicar 
and  Little  Pennington  till  he  could  go  back  in  mild  triumph, 
a  successful  man.  He  wanted  to  say  to  his  guardian : 

"What  you  did  for  me  has  not  been  wasted.  I  have 
made  good.  I  am  something  more  than  a  servant  of  the 
India  Civil  Service." 

Rupert  Carteret  had  returned  to  a  ducal  establishment 
in  much  the  same  spirit,  extorting  a  belated  welcome  from 
the  head  of  his  family  and  a  triumphal  arch  across  the 
main  drive  to  the  castle. 

And  there  was  Daffy. 

He  longed  to  meet  Daffy  again.  They  corresponded  at 
rare  intervals.  Necessarily  she  spoke  of  her  husband,  now 
a  pillar  of  the  House  of  Lords,  and  an  M.F.H.  Daffy  had 
wanted  to  marry  an  M.F.H.  To  invite  contrast  between 
a  county  magnate  and  an  impecunious  painter  was  unthink- 
able to  Rupert  Carteret's  son. 

You  will  understand,  therefor^,  how  easily  our  hero  fell 
284 


Pot-Boiling 

into  the  trap  which  Fate  laid  for  him.  Love  of  his  work 
became  merged  in  the  ambition  to  "make  good,"  the  same 
ambition  which  had  constrained  him  to  devote  all  energies 
to  the  sale  of  land. 

He  believed  that  he  was  himself  again,  that  he  had  found 
his  Ego,  that  he  knew  exactly  what  he  wanted,  fortune  and 
fame.  He  put  fame  before  fortune.  Let  Timothy  White 
ring  in  the  mouths  of  men.  Cabral  said  to  him: 

"Mon  enfant,  thou  art  rejuvenated.  It  is  very  good!" 
It  was  true.  The  black  humours  passed.  The  irony  of 
the  change  amused  and  perplexed  Tim.  He  fell  to  wonder- 
ing about  the  immeasurable  possibilities  latent  in  Man,  his 
adaptability,  his  powers  of  recuperation.  That,  he  decided, 
was  the  true  significance  of  the  New  Testament.  Christ 
must  remain  for  all  time  the  Supreme  Type  of  humanity, 
the  Universal  Exemplar.  Of  what  trivial  consequence  re- 
mained the  harmony  or  the  discrepancy  of  the  gospel  nar- 
ratives. The  great  illuminating  fact,  whether  you  accepted 
it  symbolically  or  literally,  was  the  victory  of  life  over 
death,  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 


IV 

Between  Christmas  and  Midsummer's  Day,  Tim  painted 
two  or  three  portraits  which  he  sold  at  a  price  which  his 
clients  swore  faithfully  not  to  reveal,  and  which  they  com- 
municated at  once  to  their  friends.  This  success — for  so 
Otis  regarded  it — came  opportunely,  for  the  half  yearly 
dividend  failed  altogether  in  June,  and  Tim's  agent  in- 
formed him  that  the  syndicate  had  staked  their  profits  on 
striking  oil,  and  had  not  struck  it. 

Tim,  he  added,  must  not  expect  any  money  from  Agua 
Caliente  unless  the  property  were  sold.  It  was  very  valu- 
able, worth  nearly  half  a  million  dollars,  quite  exclusive  of 
the  oil  rights,  and  sooner  or  later  the  syndicate  would  find 
a  purchaser.  It  was  being  offered  for  sale. 

285 


Timothy 

Tim  accepted  this  in  the  true  Bohemian  spirit,  giving  a 
small,  select  supper  to  celebrate  his  emancipation. 

"I  am  now  on  my  own,"  he  stated. 

"Root,  hog,  or  die!"  quoted  Otis. 

Lasher  and  Vilard  took  a  less  rosy  view.  The  habit 
of  impetrating  small  loans  had  become  chronic.  Perhaps 
Tim  was  sorrier  for  them  than  for  himself.  He  said  to 
Vilard : 

"We  must  economise." 

"All  true  artists,"  replied  that  great  man  bitterly,  "should 
be  supported  by  the  State." 

Lasher  agreed  with  him. 

When  the  time  came  for  fleeing  from  the  trippers,  Tim 
talked  of  Rochefort  en  Terre,  where  there  was  a  delightful 
inn  up  in  the  hills,  kept  by  two  charming  sisters.  Otis, 
however,  protested  vehemently : 

"Are  you  mad,  Tim?  You  must  stay  in  Concarneau  and 
paint  the  haute  bourgeoisie." 

"Never!" 

"I'll  stay  with  you.  We'll  bleed  'em  white.  And  look 
here,  a  mighty  rich  little  widow  is  coming,  a  cousin  of  mine, 
Mrs.  Boal.  Ever  heard  of  Boat's  Axle  Grease?" 

"The  brand  sounds  familiar." 

"I'll  bet  it  greased  your  wheels  in  California.  And  it 
must  grease  'em  again  here.  I  shall  make  her  commission 
a  full  length.  You  see!" 

After  much  argument,  Otis  prevailed.  The  others  scoffed. 
Even  Cabral  said: 

"Ca  pue  le  commerce!" 

Tim  and  Otis  laughed  with  the  scoffers,  regarding  the 
whole  affair  as  a  joke  to  be  perpetrated  by  two  martyrs  at 
the  expense  of  Philistines.  Their  landlady  was  delighted. 
She  stated  her  views  with  perspicacity : 

"People  come  here  and  ask,  'Where,  Madame,  are  your 
dear  artists?'  and  then  I  reply,  'They  must  have  their  lit- 
tle holiday,  too';  but  it  is  stupid  to  leave  the  town  when 
the  fools  come,  who  know  nothing  of  pictures.  Always 
286 


Pot-Boiling 

that  has  enraged  me.  Now — God  be  praised ! — I  shall  be 
able  to  help  sell  your  machines,  and  you,  my  dear  chil- 
dren, will  not  grudge  me  a  small  commission — what?" 

"Ten  per  cent.,"  said  Otis,  rubbing  his  hands. 

The  landlady,  a  Bretonne  bretonnante,  kissed  them  on 
both  cheeks,  adding  complacently : 

"We  must  use  tact\— hein?  Never,  but  never,  my  chil- 
dren, must  you  speak  of  your  pictures.  That  will  be  my 
affair.  After  dinner,  when  I  bring  the  old  cognac,  I  shall 
say :  'It  is  a  pity  that  you  cannot  see  the  masterpieces  of 
Monsieur  Otis  and  Monsieur  White.  Ah!  what  talent, 
what  genius  is  there !'  And  then  they  will  be  furious.  And 
to  calm  them  I  shall  promise  to  do  my  little  possible.  I 

shall  make  the  arrangements,  what?  With  a  difficulty ! 

As  a  supreme  favour  to  me.  Ah!  la  bonne  farce!  C'est 
de  la  comedie,  c,a!" 

Then  Mercier  thumped  his  enormous  chest,  and  declared 
his  intention  of  joining  the  martyrs.  Tim  was  delighted; 
he  had  learned  to  love  the  black-a-vized  giant.  Otis  said 
dejectedly:  "Le  Colosse  will  spoil  our  market.  His  choco- 
late-boxey  pastels  will  sell  like  hot  cakes." 

Vilard  cheered  up  Lasher  by  whispering: 

"When  we  return,  cher  poete,  there  will  be  pickings. 
What  a  blessed  privilege  to  be  able  to  assist  genius !" 

Mercier  said  loudly,  with  the  intention  of  appeasing 
Cabral : 

"These  good  bourgeois  have  pretty  wives.  We  must  be 
civil  to  them.  Yes,  yes ;  it  is  strange  that  we  never  thought 
of  this  campaign  before."  He  continued  talking  of  his 
bonnes  fortunes  while  Tim  chalked  on  his  broad  back : 

"Dangerous." 


About  the  middle  of  July,  the  tourists  invaded  Concar- 
neau,  a  terrible  crowd.  The  three  martyrs  were  appalled. 
Even  Mercier  quailed,  saying  querulously: 

287 


Timothy 

"I  never  saw  such  women.  It  is  a  penance  to  behold 
them  in  bathing  costume." 

With  the  crowd  came  Mrs.  Boal.  She  was  a  little,  faded 
woman  with  kind,  anxious  eyes  which  rested  pleasantly 
upon  Tim.  Her  chin  and  nose,  faintly  encarmined,  were 
rather  sharp.  She  suffered  from  dyspepsia  and  had  passed 
her  thirty- fourth  birthday.  Her  Christian  name  was 
Alethea.  Tim  was  much  relieved,  because  he  had  ex- 
pected an  over-dressed,  bediamonded  parvenu  from  the 
mid-west,  a  type  that  he  had  met  and  abominated  in  Santa 
Barbara.  Mrs.  Boal  joined  the  martyrs  at  a  small  round 
table,  saying  little  and  eating  less,  but  obviously  impressed 
by  the  artists.  Otis  furnished  Tim  with  additional  details — 

"Gideon  T.  Boal  was  a  beast,  a  big  money-making  brute. 
He  used  to  ask  me  why  I  didn't  come  back  to  God's  coun- 
try. I  told  him  that  I  intended  to  return  there  when 
sixty  millions  of  my  compatriots  had  visited  Europe  to 
learn  manners.  There  was  a  coolness  between  us  after 
that.  I  used  to  wonder  why  Omnipotence  permitted  him 
to  accumulate  his  vast  pile.  Not  a  soul  was  the  better  for 
it  while  he  lived;  and  his  death  emphasised  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things.  Alethea  has  all  his  cash,  and  doesn't 
know  what  to  do  with  it,  poor  dear.  Now,  Tim,  I've  fixed 
you  up.  You're  to  paint  her  full  length,  and  I've  named 
the  price.  Five  thousand  francs.  Hit  the  trail,  my  son." 

"Otis,  it's  too  much." 

"It  isn't.  If  I'd  asked  less,  she  would  have  been  scared. 
And  she's  taken  an  uncommon  fancy  to  you,  Tim.  She 
saw  Cabral's  Discobulus  in  Paris.  And  I  believe  she'd  have 
bought  it,  only  some  hog-slaying  magnate  from  Chicago 
snapped  it  up." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Tim. 


288 


CHAPTER  III 

ALETHEA 


MR.  BOAL,"  observed  Alethea  to  Tim,  "considered 
me  a  fool." 

She  stood  upon  the  dais  in  Tim's  studio,  with  the  light 
from  the  north  window  slanting  upon  her  face.  She 
wore  a  frock,  created  by  Pingat  for  the  portrait,  a  soft, 
shimmering  brocade,  exquisitely  cut  upon  simple,  flowing 
lines.  Tim  admired  the  frock  enormously,  and  had  said 
so  in  his  usual  hearty  manner,  which  established  friendship 
upon  an  easy  footing.  He  liked  Alethea,  and  felt  sorry 
for  her.  Obviously,  she  had  borne  much  from  her  late 
husband,  everything,  in  point  of  fact,  except  children.  Otis 
was  thankful  for  this,  and  possibly  Alethea  joined  in 
silent  thanksgiving.  When  a  woman  tells  a  man  that  an- 
other man  has  accounted  her  a  fool,  it  is  not  easy  to  reply. 
Tim,  however,  murmured  politely: 

"It  doesn't  much  matter  now  what  Mr.  Boal  thought, 
does  it?" 

"N-n-no,"  replied  Alethea.  She  gazed  wistfully  at  Tim, 
hoping  that  he  would  be  complimentary,  but  our  hero 
frowned,  trying  to  seize  the  fugitive  expression. 

"By  Jove !"  he  exclaimed.    "I've  got  it  ?" 

"What?" 

"That  little  look.  It  has  escaped  me  till  now.  What 
a  bit  of  luck!" 

"May  I  take  a  tiny  peep?" 

She  descended  from  the  dais  and  approached  the  portrait 
now  nearing  completion.  As  a  work  of  art  it  was  sub- 

289 


Timothy 

jected  later  to  much  well-deserved  and  drastic  criticism, 
but  the  likeness  was  undeniable — and  flattering.  Otis  had 
bargained  that  it  should  be  flattering.  He  said  earnestly 
to  Tim: 

"The  poor  little  woman  has  been  biffed  with  a  fence- 
rail.  You  must  play  the  good  Samaritan.  Make  her  pleased 
with  herself." 

Tim  had  succeeded  beyond  expectation. 

Alethea  peeped ;  then  she  said  shyly : 

"Do  I  look  as  young  as  that?" 

"You  look  younger  every  day." 

"Do  I?  Well,  I  don't  feel  young.  Nobody  feels  young 
who  takes  Lacto-Peptine.  I  take  fifteen  grains;  ten  used 
to  be  enough,  but  I  had  to  increase  the  dose." 

"Oblige  me  by  going  back  to  ten." 

"Really?    I  suppose  you're  joking." 

"Try  ten." 

"Fried  sardines  are  so  indigestible,  Mr.  White." 

"But  they're  delicious.  I'm  sure  you  think  too  much 
and  too  seriously  about  yourself." 

"I  have  to,"  she  admitted  naively. 

Tim  inferred  from  her  tone  all  that  she  intended  him 
to  infer.  The  look  which  he  had  just  caught  indicated 
a  sense  of  loneliness,  and  the  incapacity  to  get  away 
from  it. 

"I  sha'n't  touch  that  canvas  again  to-day.  Do  you  want 
to  go  back  to  the  hotel,  or  do  you  feel  like  sitting  here 
with  me  and  having  a  talk?" 

She  smiled  primly  and  sat  down. 

"What  shall  we  talk  about?"  asked  Tim  briskly.  "Pres- 
ent or  future?" 

"The  present,  please." 

"Good!  Do  you  think  you're  making  the  most  of  it? 
Oughtn't  you  to  be  sitting  to  Carolus  Duran,  for  example, 
instead  of  to  me?" 

"I  have  liked  sitting  to  you.     I  should  be  terrified  of 
those  big,  conceited  men.    I  hated  to  sit  to  you  at  first." 
290 


Alethea 

"You  have  sat  like  Patience  on  a  monument." 

"It  has  been  so  pleasant,"  she  sighed.  "I  shall  be  so 
sorry  to  leave  Concarneau." 

"Aren't  you  wandering  into  the  future?" 

She  nodded,  and  remained  silent,  watching  Tim  as  he 
began  to  clean  his  brushes.  Whenever  he  happened  to 
turn  his  back,  her  face  softened,  growing  prim  again 
when  he  looked  at  her.  In  her  heart  she  was  piqued  be- 
cause Tim  remained  so  genially  aloof.  Many  men  had 
made  love  to  his  widow  since  the  death  of  Gideon  T.  Boal. 
A  select  few  refrained.  She  hated  the  many  and  liked 
the  few,  which  shows  that  she  was  not  the  fool  which  her 
late  husband  had  considered  her.  Now,  after  a  month's 
intimate  acquaintance,  she  began  to  wonder  if  she  would 
like  Tim  to  make  love  to  her.  From  Otis  she  learned 
something  of  Tim's  past..  Otis  said  tersely: 

"Poor  Tim  has  had  some  nasty  knocks.  He  lost  his 
wife,  his  money  and  his  health  in  one  rattle  out  of  the 
box.  He  looked  half  dead  when  he  came  here." 

"He  looks  splendid  now,  Tom." 

"That's  because  his  work  has  got  hold  of  him.  Nothing 
like  work.  I  predict  that  Tim  will  become  a  fashionable 
portrait  painter.  He  has  a  little  way  with  him.  You'll  find 
out" 

She  had.  Tim's  little  way  challenged  attention  from 
most  women.  Alethea  said  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  to 
her  cousin: 

"You  know,  Tom,  your  friend,  Mr.  White,  reminds  me 
of  that  sign  at  the  end  of  the  sand  dunes." 

"What  sign?" 

She  laughed  softly: 

"Defence  de  chasser  sur  ce  terrain!" 

Otis  laughed. 

"Great  Scot !  Alethea,  you  were  wasted  on  Gideon.  May 
I  repeat  that  to  Tim?" 

"If  you  do,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again." 

Otis  told  Tim  the  same  evening,  adding: 

291 


Timothy 

"The  Discobulus  did  the  trick.  There's  a  big  heap  of 
dollars,  old  man,  why  not  sail  in?" 

"You  go  to  blazes!"  replied  Tim  irritably. 

When  he  had  finished  cleaning  his  brushes,  Tim  sat  down 
not  too  near  Mrs.  Boal. 

"We  seem  to  have  exhausted  the  present  rather  quickly. 
After  all,  the  future  appeals  more  to  the  imagination. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  leave  here  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  That's,  the  trouble  with  me.  Probably 
I  shall  go  back  to  my  apartment  in  Paris." 

"You  like  Paris?" 

"Not  particularly.  It's  an  improvement  upon  Minneapo- 
lis. I  have  been  asked  to  two  places  in  Scotland." 

"Scotland !    Do  you  shoot,  or  play  golf  ?" 

"I  don't  do  anything  of  that  sort.    I'm  a  looker-on." 

"At  other  people's  games.  Why  not  start  some  of 
your  own  ?" 

She  regarded  him  intently,  and  then  gazed  reflectively 
at  her  hands,  which  were  small  and  soft  and  white,  the 
hands  of  a  looker-on.  After  a  pause  she  said  simply: 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin  games." 

Tim  displayed  impatience. 

"But,  dash  it  all !  you  have  money  to  burn.  Why  not 
burn  some  of  it." 

"How?" 

"You  are  interested  in  the  theatre.  Produce  a  play !  Get 
hold  of  a  budding  genius!  Make  things  buzz  a  bit!" 

"I  don't  know  any  budding  geniuses.  If  you  had  writ- 
ten a  play,  Mr.  White,  I  would  produce  it — with  pleas- 
ure." 

"Thanks,"  said  Tim.     "I  really  believe  you  would." 

"I'd  love  to  help  people,  but " 

"You  hate  'em  when  they  try  to  help  themselves  out  of 
Mr.  Boal's  pile.  Of  course,  you're  pestered  by  the  wrong 
sort." 

"Yes ;  I  am.  It  is  hateful.  I  was  reading  the  other  day 
about  the  lady  whom  Lord  Beaconsfield  married.  She 
292 


Alethea 

helped  him,  didn't  she?  That  must  have  been  a  real  joy 
to  her." 

"Advertise  for  a  rising  but  impecunious  politician.  The 
House  is  full  of  them." 

"You  laugh  at  nearly  everything  I  say.  I  don't  know  any 
politicians.  I  was  not  impressed  by  them  in  America." 

"Nor  I.  Anyway,  I  detest  party  politics.  If  you  really 
want  to  help  people " 

He  paused,  looking  at  her,  faintly  smiling. 

"I  do.     Indeed,  I  do." 

"Then  you  need  not  leave  Concarneau.  The  sardines 
have  failed  this  summer.  There  will  be  a  lot  of  misery  in 
the  fall  and  winter.  Children  and  women  will  starve." 

"Of  course,  I  will  help.  Why  didn't  you  mention  this 
before?" 

"I  wondered  whether  you  would  find  it  out  for  your- 
self. But  how  could  you?  These  Bretons  are  naturally 
reserved,  and  the  fisherfolk  are  extraordinarily  proud  and 
plucky.  Already  there  is  a  lot  of  hardship.  And  in  bad 
times  the  men  drink.  It  used  to  be  cider;  now  it's  bad 
brandy,  la  goutte."  He  went  on,  speaking  with  feeling  and 
excitement,  in  a  tone  she  had  never  heard  from  him  be- 
fore :  "Life  is  a  damnable  affair  when  you  have  to  face  it 
with  an  empty  stomach." 

"Have  you  ever  done  that?" 

"Yes;  I  have." 

"Oh!    Tell  me,  please!    I  am  so  interested." 

"I've  been  down  on  my  uppers,  Mrs.  Boal.  I've  begged 
a  crust  of  bread  and  a  plate  full  of  cold  potatoes.  You 
see  I  know  how  these  poor  devils  suffer.  Yes;  I've  been 
there,  but  I  escaped  one  misery — cold." 

She  shivered;  her  face  became  forlorn. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  you  feel  cold,"  Tim  murmured. 

"You  have  warmed  me.  I  will  help  these  poor  women 
gladly,  if  you  will  show  me  the  way." 

"Come  on,"  said  Tim. 

293 


Timothy 


She  followed  him  into  many  houses  during  the  next  week, 
watching  him  intently,  beholding  a  side  of  the  man  quite 
unfamiliar  to  her.  Talking  with  his  poorer  friends,  Tim 
dropped  a  slightly  ironic,  reckless  tone.  With  them  he  be- 
came of  them,  simple,  ingenuous,  very  plain-spoken  when 
he  encountered  whining  fraud.  The  Breton  is  a  singu- 
lar mixture  of  simplicity  and  shrewdness.  Recognise  him 
as  a  Celt,  not  a  Frenchman,  and  you  begin  to  understand 
him.  Alethea  tasted  the  fish  soup,  la  cotrillade,  and  lis- 
tened to  some  of  Botrel's  songs  crooned  by  mothers  to 
their  children.  Tim  was  saturated  with  the  traditions  of 
Finistere.  The  quaint  customs,  the  legends,  the  supersti- 
tions flowed  from  his  lips.  Such  knowledge  was  new  to 
Alethea,  and  stimulated  an  imagination  somewhat  atro- 
phied by  disuse.  Tim  whirled  her  out  of  herself  centrifu- 
gally.  He  made  her  giddy.  She  became  intensely  conscious 
of  him  and  dependent  upon  him  for  excitement  which 
seemed  to  exercise  a  pleasingly  rejuvenating  effect.  He 
filled  her  prim  mind  with  curiosities  concerning  his  past 
life,  which  he  persistently  and  exasperatingly  refused  to 
gratify,  whetting  them  to  a  sharper  edge.  In  one  of  the 
small,  granite-built  cottages  a  little  boy  was  slowly  dying 
of  arthritis.  Tim's  rage  at  this  confounded  Alethea,  who 
had  been  brought  up  a  Presbyterian  of  the  straightest  sect, 
knowing  the  Westminster  Confession  by  heart.  The  child 
happened  to  be  illegitimate.  Alethea  was  very  sorry  for 
him,  but  rooted  in  her  mind  lay  the  conviction  that  the 
deformed  hands  and  feet  were  God's  judgment  upon  a 
child  of  sin.  Tim's  wrath  confounded  her: 

"He  has  never  had  a  chance.  It's  too  horrible.  There's 
an  old  woman  next  door  dying  of  cancer,  but  she's  had  her 
innings;  she's  lived.  This  poor  little  kid  has  had  nothing 
but  pain.  It  makes  my  gorge  rise." 

Alethea  murmured  shyly : 
294 


Alethea 

"The  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  blushed. 

"He  was — er — born  out  of  wedlock." 

"Heavens !  Do  you  hold  the  child  responsible  for  that  ? 
Do  you  think  that  illegitimate  children  are  a  whit  worse  than 
any  others?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "The  sins  of  the  fa- 
thers  " 

"Nothing  in  that  at  all,"  said  Tim  vehemently.  "Rather 
the  contrary.  Love  children,  as  a  rule,  are  stronger  and 
better  looking  than  the  lawful  pledges.  And  a  jolly  good 
thing,  too.  The  Doctrine  of  Compensation  comes  in." 

Alethea  pursed  up  her  pale-pink  lips,  but  she  was  think- 
ing that  Tim  looked  extraordinarily  handsome  when  he 
was  excited. 

"Would  you  think  less  of  me  if  I  were  illegitimate?" 

"Of  course  not,  but  you  aren't." 

Tim  burst  out  laughing. 

in 

Jerome  Mercier  made  love  to  Alethea,  but  his  methods 
reminded  Alethea  of  the  late  Gideon  T.  Boal,  who  said 
brutally  that  if  he  wanted  a  soft  thing  he  asked  for  it,  and 
generally  got  it.  One  afternoon  Otis,  Mercier,  Tim  and 
Alethea  were  drinking  coffee  upon  the  terrasse  in  front 
of  the  hotel.  It  was  market  day,  and  most  of  the  peasants, 
men  and  women,  were  cidralises.  Upon  the  quay,  not  forty 
yards  distant,  an  altercation  arose  between  a  peasant  and 
his  wife,  ending  in  a  vicious  blow  from  the  man's  clenched 
fist.  The  couple  were  separated,  but  Mercier,  much  to 
Tim's  amusement,  gobbled  an  opportunity  of  impressing 
the  rich  widow.  He  had  spent  a  fortnight  in  England, 
and  liked  to  air  his  English. 

"What  a  'orror!"  he  growled  to  Alethea.  "He  strike 
his  wife  wiz  hees  feest,  so!" 

295 


Timothy 

Mercier  crashed  a  huge  fist  into  the  open  palm  of  his 
left  hand.  Alethea  winced,  Mercier  went  on  dramatically: 

"Do  you  think  that  I,  Jerome  Mercier,  would  strike  my 
wife  wiz  my  feest?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Alethea,  thinking  that  the  fortnight  spent 
by  the  fiery  Gaul  in  England  had  not  been  altogether  wasted. 
"Of  course  not." 

Mercier  went  on,  delighted  to  observe  that  Alethea's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  bulging  muscles : 

"Eef  I  was  married,  hein?  And  eef  my  wife  should  say 
somesing  to  me  zat  I  did  not  like,  do  you  think  that  I 
would  use  my  feest?" 

"What  would  you  do?"  enquired  Tim. 

"Sapristi!     I  should  give  'er  a  good  keeck — be'ind." 

Later,  Alethea  said  to  Tim : 

"I  don't  like  Monsieur  Mercier." 

By  this  time  our  hero  was  uncomfortably  aware  that 
Alethea  liked  somebody  else  whom  he  was  too  modest 
to  name.  Otis  said  with  conviction: 

"She's  heels  over  head,  Tim.  And  not  a  bad  little  sort. 
The  clinging  ivy,  what?  And  you,  the  sturdy  oak!" 

"Don't  be  a  fool !" 

"That  is  my  constant  endeavour.  It's  a  cinch,  old  man. 
If  you  don't  mind  ladling  out  Lacto-Peptine,  three  times 
a  day,  till  death  do  you  part,  why  mop  up  what  the  gods 
are  handing  to  you  in  a  spoon." 

"Shut  up!" 

"It's  there  to  take  or  leave.  You'll  be  a  sucker  if  you 
don't  open  your  mouth  wide." 

"I  say— drop  it!" 

Otis  shrugged  his  shoulders.  In  his  heart  the  good  fel- 
low was  more  concerned  with  his  cousin's  happiness  than 
Tim's.  He  felt  sure  that  Tim  would  make  an  admirable 
husband. 

Some  Frenchman  has  said :  "A  man  chooses  his  friends, 
but  love  imposes  itself."  Perhaps  the  exact  contrary  may 
be  affirmed  of  American  women.  Friendship  is  imposed 
296 


Alethea 

upon  them,  but  they  choose  their  mates.  Alethea  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  wanted  Tim,  and  set  to  work  to  capture 
him.  She  employed  ordinary  methods,  throwing  herself 
whole-heartedly  into  the  manufacture  of  nets. 

There  are  three  rules  which  might  appropriately  be 
framed  and  hung  up  in  young  ladies'  seminaries : 

(1)  Inspire  a  passion. 

(2)  Let  it  be  discreetly  seen  that  passion  has  been  in- 
spired in  you,  for  most  men  are  terrified  of  marrying  a 
cold  woman. 

(3)  Sink,  temporarily,  your  own  identity,  tastes,  and 
predilections  in  those  of  your  quarry. 

If  these  rules  be  observed,  the  result  is  certain. 

Alethea,  let  it  be  premised,  spread  her  nets  at  the  right 
moment.  Tim  was  approaching  another  crisis  in  his  va- 
riegated life,  With  a  return  of  health  and  exuberant  vi- 
tality, he  had  grown  restless,  dissatisfied  with  himself  and 
his  present  ambitions.  The  portrait  of  Alethea  stood  out 
as  a  commercial  success  and  an  artistic  failure.  That  was 
the  unspoken  verdict  of  every  man  who  knew.  Nobody 
knew  it  better  than  Tim  himself.  He  could  become,  if 
he  chose,  a  painter  of  fair  women;  and,  with  constant 
practice,  his  technique  would  improve.  Such  portraits, 
if  he  struggled  towards  such  an  end,  would  be  hung  in 
the  Salon  and  on  the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy.  A  com- 
fortable income,  so  Otis  predicted,  was  assured. 

"You  have  the  knack,"  said  Otis. 

A  success  so  facile  bored  Tim.  He  possessed  a  tal- 
ent  !  That,  invariably,  was  Cabral's  word.  An  eter- 
nity of  portrait  painting,  of  tactful  concessions  to  pretty 
clients,  of  jejune  small-talk,  appeared  to  Tim  about  as 
alluring  as  the  future  of  sweet  Hosannas  promised  to  the 
faithful  of  Little  Pennington.  To  paint  a  great  landscape 
was  another  matter.  That,  indeed,  would  be  worth  while. 
But  Briand  was  doubtful  whether  such  a  consummation 
could  ever  be  reached. 

And  meanwhile  he  must  live,  pay  his  way,  root  vigor- 

297 


Timothy 

ously,  or  sink   into   abysmal   zones   of   degeneration   like 
Vilard  and  poor  Lasher. 

Happily,  he  was  able  to  pay  his  way.  The  haute 
bourgeoisie  had  bought  many  studies.  Mercier  and  Otis 
were  talking  of  a  three-man  show  at  Nantes  and  Brest.  If 
Tim  chose  to  take  up  writing  again,  he  had  money  enough 
to  support  himself  in  tolerable  comfort  for  at  least  a  year. 


298 


CHAPTER  IV 

ACCORDING   TO    LASHER 


CABRAL  returned  to  Concarneau  upon  the  I5th  of 
September,  and  nodded  portentously  when  he  saw 
Alethea's  portrait.  He  told  Tim  that  the  price  paid  (Tim 
showed  him  the  cheque)  was  not  excessive.  Then  he 
added : 

"Tu  as  trouve  ton  chemin,  mon  enfant." 

But  he  smiled  derisively,  shrugging  his  broad  shoulders. 
Tim  said: 

"Mon  maitre,  will  you  be  perfectly  honest  with  me?" 

Cabral's  thick  eyebrows  went  up.     Tim  continued: 

"Shall  I  arrive?" 

"But  where?" 

"I  am  ambitious.  It  is  not  enough  to  paint  portraits  for 
the  haute  bourgeoisie.  Of  all  men  you  are  the  one  whose 
opinion  I  hold  to  be  final.  Is  it  in  me,  do  you  think,  to 
paint  a  great  picture?" 

Cabral  hesitated.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  had  deep- 
ened in  tone;  he  pulled  at  his  beard,  staring  keenly  into 
Tim's  eager  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know,  my  friend.  It  means — work,  work,  work. 
Ah !  God !  how  I  have  worked !  And  ever  since  I  was 
fifteen.  And  now  I  am  fifty.  What  a  life!  Everything 
sacrificed  to  my  Art.  Well,  I  don't  complain.  For  the  rest, 
you  think,  they  all  think,  that  I  have  arrived.  But,  alas !  I 
never  satisfy  myself.  And  then  I  wonder  if  it  is  good 
enough.  I  might  have  married.  There  was  a  dear  girl 

once !  But  my  work  came  between  us.  She  has  been 

299 


Timothy 

happier  with  another  man.  Voila !  You  ask  for  my  opin- 
ion, and  here  it  is.  I  do  not  think  that  your  soul  is  in  your 
painting.  It  is  not  everything  to  you.  And  you  began 

too  late.  You  have  reached  a  point !  You  can  support 

yourself.  It  is  no  small  achievement,  but  a  great  pic- 
ture  !  Ah !  that  will  exact  sacrifice.  It  means  a  road 

other  than  the  one  you  have  taken,  a  narrow  up-hill  path; 
it  means  infinite  patience,  infinite  pains,  and  at  the  end, 
perhaps,  nothing  but  disappointment." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tim.    "You  have  done  me  a  service." 

That  night  he  reread  his  novel  with  a  detachment  which 
surprised  him.  He  experienced  a  craving  to  finish  it.  He 
compared  the  work  of  his  brain  with  the  work  of  his  hands. 
And  the  one,  so  he  decided,  was  honestly  a  part  of  him- 
self, whereas  the  other  seemed  patch-work,  odds  and  ends 
filched  from  Otis,  from  Briand,  from  Mercier.  He  faced 
the  demoralising  truth :  his  painting  was  fake ! 

Next  day  he  said  to  Otis : 

"I  suppose  I'm  a  faker." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Otis.  "I  steal  everything  I  can.  We  are 
all  of  us  fakers,  except  Cabral,  Briand  and  Lasher." 

"Lasher?" 

"Lasher,  poor  devil!  is  sincere.  His  output  is  small,  but 
such  as  it  is  I  call  it  original  stuff.  It's  Lasher.  Nobody 
else  could  do  it.  That's  the  test.  He  has  no  market;  and 
he's  a  slacker;  but  he  is  himself." 

"You  are  right." 

"You  look  solemn,  old  man." 

"I  am  thinking  of  chucking  painting." 

"You're  quite  crazy." 

"I  have  been  crazy." 

II 

Fate  furthered  Alethea's  designs.     The  Vicar  wrote  to 
Tim  telling  him,  with  infinite  regret,  that  the  Pennington 
estates  were  in  the  market.     Tim  had  always  known  that 
300 


According  to  Lasher 

Sir  Gilbert's  successor  was  cruelly  crippled,  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  such  a  sale  impended  above  him.  And,  in  Cali- 
fornia, when  money  was  pouring  into  his  pockets,  he  had 
thought  that  he  would  like  to  "make  good"  by  buying  such 
a  property.  What  a  triumph  that  would  have  been.  He 
remembered  prattling  about  it  to  Magdalena  at  the  time 
when  Cooke  and  he  bought  the  three  immense  tracts  to  the 
south  of  Santa  Barbara. 

He  said  to  Alethea : 

"If  you  want  a  superb  estate  in  perfect  order,  with  a 
historical  house  on  it,  and  inviolate  traditions,  now's  your 
chance." 

He  was  jesting,  but  she  took  him  seriously,  asking  for 
details.  He  talked  to  her  about  Little  Pennington. 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  settle  in  England.  You  see  I  had 
no  position  in  America.  I  should  love  a  beautiful  home 
under  certain  conditions." 

"You  ought  to  marry  again." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  a  shy,  pathetic  appeal.  Tim 
said  abruptly: 

"If  you  married  an  Englishman,  do  you  think  that  you 
could  settle  down,  permanently,  I  mean,  in  England?" 

"I  should  just  love  it." 

She  looked  almost  pretty.  Tim's  once  familiar  spirit, 
recklessness,  possessed  him.  Alethea  offered  a  solution  to 
the  problem  of  his  future.  She  wanted  him.  And  he  knew 
that  he  could  give  her  a  quiet  happiness,  upon  which  she 
would  set  an  inordinate  value,  because  till  now  unhappiness 
had  been  her  portion. 

Almost — he  jumped. 

They  made  some  pleasant  expeditions  together  to  Quim- 
per,  to  the  Pointe  du  Raz,  to  Vannes  and  Brest.  Otis,  as 
a  rule,  played  gooseberry,  but  he  had  a  trick  of  disappearing 
which  Tim  rather  resented,  because  Otis  gaily  refused  to 
believe  that  he  was  really  wanted.  He  carried  a  sketch 
book,  to  save  his  disappearances.  Alethea  pottered  in  and 

301 


Timothy 

out  of  shops,  buying  things  she  did  not  want  and  paying 
more  for  them  than  their  value,  obviously  at  the  mercy  of 
shrewd  shop-keepers,  unless  Tim  interposed  himself  between 
guile  and  guilelessness.  He  watched  her,  thinking  how  in- 
timate they  had  become  in  a  few  weeks.  It  was  possible 
to  be  alone  with  her  and  keep  silence,  as  if  it  were  the  pledge 
and  seal  of  friendship.  When  such  a  silence  lasted  too 
long,  a  faint  blush  would  steal  into  the  lady's  cheeks.  He 
noticed  that  she  became  easily  tired,  hiding  fatigue  for  his 
sake;  and  yet  eager  to  accept  a  considerate  cavalier's  min- 
istrations. Indeed,  her  gratitude  for  small  attentions  both 
touched  and  exasperated  Tim.  He  kept  on  thinking :  "What 
a  rotten  time  she  must  have  had  with  that  brute  !"  To  give 
her  now  as  reasonably  good  a  time  as  possible  seemed  to  be 
the  whole  duty  of  any  decently  kind  man.  Evidently  the 
brute  had  trampled  savagely  upon  her  opinions  and  judg- 
ments. Her  deprecating  manner,  her  prim  "perhaps  I  am 
wrong"  aroused  a  pity  in  Tim  which  she  may  have  mis- 
taken for  a  kindred  sentiment. 

When  she  smiled  at  him,  he  was  disagreeably  reminded 
of  Ivy  Jellicoe. 

Moreover,  he  was  sensible  that  she  determined  the  tone 
of  their  intercourse.  She  pitched  the  key — a  minor  key. 
Her  talk  began  and  ended  on  a  monotonously  plaintive  note. 
She  might  have  feverish  moments,  but  her  temperature 
was  below  normal. 

Very  subtly,  she  dangled  her  wealth  before  him.  She 
entreated  his  advice  concerning  some  of  her  investments. 
Apparently  she  was  spending  about  one-fourth  of  her  in- 
come. It  was  impossible  to  escape  from  the  accretions  and 
expansions  of  her  riches.  Happily,  she  was  never  vulgar 
when  she  spoke  of  these  ever-accumulating  dollars.  She 
sat  upon  her  vast  pile  with  an  odd  and  disarming  dignity. 
And  she  managed  most  astutely  to  convey  a  sharp  im- 
pression of  what  her  dollars  had  left  undone  for  her.  Up 
to  the  present  moment  (the  unlamented  Gideon  had  been 
in  a  marble  mausoleum  for  two  years),  Boal's  Axle  Grease 
302 


According  to  Lasher 

seemed  to  have  lubricated  all  the  wheels  in  the  world  except 
hers. 

She  complained  of  an  uninteresting  youth.  Tim  envisaged 
her  as  young  and  pretty  but  isolated.  She  had  been  educated 
in  Switzerland,  at  Lausanne.  At  her  first  coming-out  party, 
the  truculent  Gideon  had  captured  her. 

Some  of  her  self-revelations  alarmed  him.  She  was 
lamentably  lacking  in  taste.  She  admired  the  wrong  pic- 
tures, the  wrong  furniture  and  porcelain,  although  she 
dressed  exquisitely.  But  her  elegance  was  fictitious,  being 
largely  due  to  her  Paris  corsetiere  and  milliner.  She 
couldn't  be  trusted  alone  in  a  provincial  hat-shop.  At 
Vannes,  for  instance,  she  bought  a  monstrous  affair,  which 
she  shewed  to  Tim  and  Otis  in  the  railway  carriage.  Otis, 
pressed  to  pronounce  judgment,  said  frankly: 

"My  dear  woman,  it  isn't  a  hat,  it's  an  awful  warning." 

Alethea  turned  to  Tim. 

"You  like  it,  don't  you,  Mr.  White?" 

Tim  replied  kindly : 

"If  I  had  your  face  I  shouldn't  hide  it  under  that  hat." 

She  remained  perfectly  amiable  and  resigned. 

"I  shall  leave  it  in  the  carriage." 

The  train  stopped  at  Auray.  Tim  glanced  out  of  the 
window.  Close  to  the  carriage  stood  a  large  young  woman, 
who  had  discarded,  apparently,  the  costume  of  the  province. 
Her  eyes  gloated  upon  the  hat,  which  Alethea  still  held  in 
her  hands.  Tim  seized  the  hat,  jumped  out  of  the  carriage 
and  approached  the  young  woman. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  politely.  "This  is  yours.  We 
bought  it  for  you  in  Vannes.  Pray  accept  it  with  our  united 
compliments." 

"But,  Monsieur !" 

"Not  a  word,  I  pray  you." 

"But !" 

"You  will  look  ravishing  in  it.  At  Mass  it  will  distract 
the  attention  of  everybody.  There!" 

He  left  it  in  her  hands.  As  the  train  moved  out  of  the 

303 


Timothy 


station,  the  large  young  woman  was  seen  gazing  entranced 
at  the  hat,  surrounded  by  a  chattering  and  astounded- crowd. 
Tim  kissed  his  fingers  to  her,  saying  to  Alethea : 

"Last  Sunday,  she  prayed  for  a  new  hat.  From  this 
moment  her  faith  is  assured." 

"I'm  glad  she  has  it,"  said  Otis,  "but  can  she  live  up 
to  it?" 

That  evening,  after  Alethea  had  retired  (her  word)  to 
bed,  Tim  said  to  Otis: 

"What  is  Mrs.  Boal's  Paris  apartment  like?" 

"Like  that  hat.     She  doesn't  know,  poor  dear!" 

"But  she  thinks  she  does." 

Indeed,  beneath  her  anaemic  manner  lay  a  streak  of 
obstinacy.  She  exhibited  strong  likes  and  dislikes,  and  was 
extraordinarily  acute  at  detecting  what  she  held  to  be 
blemishes,  or  worse.  Poor  little  Lasher  provoked  the 
remark : 

"He's  shamelessly  irreligious." 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Tim. 

"But  he  is.  He  scoffs  at  religious  people.  He  told  me 
that  he  lived  abroad  because  he  could  not  stand  the  expres- 
sion on  the  faces  of  people  in  England  coming  out  of 
church." 

"The  smug,  self-righteous  look.  I  dare  say  poets  find  it 
trying,  particularly  when  they're  hungry.  Some  of  his 
relations,  perhaps,  wanted  Lasher  to  go  to  church,  but  did 
not  invite  him  to  luncheon  afterwards." 

"He's  not  fit  to  go  to  church,  or  to  have  luncheon  with 
decent  people.  He  is  not  clean." 

"He  isn't.  Soap  is  one  of  his  many  economies.  But 
he's  kind.  He's  been  kind  to  me." 

"I  hate  to  think  that  he  could  be." 

Tim  lent  her  Rupert  Carteret  and  his  Times.    Here  again 
she  displayed  almost  startling  acuteness.     She  read  it  care- 
fully, not  missing  a  line  upon  principle.    Then  she  delivered 
her  verdict — 
304 


According  to  Lasher 

"I  like  him  because  he  was  so  like  you.  All  through  the 
book  he  reminds  me  of  you." 

"In  what  way?" 

"He  was  so  alive;  and  he  tried  many  things,  before  he 
found  what  exactly  suited  him.  I  sometimes  wonder " 

"Yes?" 

"If  there  isn't  some  big  success  coming  to  you,  some- 
thing to  make  up  for  all  you  have  suffered." 

"A  big  success  painting?" 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  painting.  Painters  have  not 
very  much  of  a  position  in  England,  have  they?" 

"The  smallest  county  magnate  cuts  'em  out,"  replied  Tim. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  he  had  a  long  talk  with  Lasher 
about  literature.  After  what  Otis  had  said,  he  was  fired 
to  speak  of  his  novel  to  Lasher.  He  found  the  poet  gently 
stimulated  by  absinthe.  As  a  rule,  he  rarely  uttered  a  word 
worth  listening  to  before  five  in  the  afternoon.  By  dinner- 
time he  became  articulate,  and  towards  midnight  lucidly 
eloquent.  This  first  important  talk  took  place  just  before 
dinner.  Tim  ordered  the  aperitif. 

"I  told  Otis,"  he  began,  "that  I  was  thinking  of  chucking 
painting  and  going  back  to  writing." 

Lasher  opened  his  big  sleepy  eyes. 

"Why?"  he  demanded  languidly. 

"My  painting  is  fake." 

"Most  painting  is,  and  most  writing,  too.  You  aren't  so 
mad  as  to  hope  to  support  yourself  with  your  pen?" 

"Well;  yes." 

"Got  any  stuff  here?"  Tim  nodded.  "You  let  me  look 
at  it.  I'll  tell  you  in  two  ticks  what  I  think  of  it." 

"I'm  really  most  awfully  obliged." 

Lasher  rolled  a  cigarette,  gazing  reflectively  at  Tim  with 
appraising  eyes. 

"What  are  you  at?"  he  grumbled.  "Vilard  and  I  come 
back  to  find  you  three  fellows  positively  rank  with  unde- 
served prosperity." 

Tim  laughed  cheerfully. 

305 


Timothy 

"That's  it.    Rank  is  the  word.    I  can  smell  myself." 

"Quite  amazing,"  murmured  Lasher.  "Doesn't  my  awful 
example  give  you  pause?  I  began  with  a  sort  of  success. 
I  wrote  feuilletons  for  a  daily  paper,  took  a  cold  tub  every 
morning  and  cut  my  hair.  The  quest  for  the  right  word 
has  brought  me  to  this.  Encouraging,  eh?" 

Tim  weighed  the  question,  answering  slowly :  "There 
is  nothing  so  discouraging  as  the  wrong  success." 

"I  felt  like  that  once." 

"So  you  flew  the  track." 

"Flew  the  track  is  quite  good.  But  the  result  isn't.  I 
piled  myself  up,  to  borrow  an  illuminating  expression  from 
Otis.  Same  thing  happened  to  Vilard  and  Gauguin,  and 
Verlaine,  and  a  dozen  I  could  name.  You'd  better  stick 
to  the  lines,  Tim,  particularly  as  you've  been  off  'em,  and 
know  what  it  is." 

Tim  muttered  grimly :    "I've  been  derailed  right  enough." 

"Yes ;  but  I  derailed  myself.  That's  a  mighty  difference. 
Now,  look  here,  I'm  just  beginning  to  wake  up.  My  mind 
is  working.  You  mayn't  catch  me  in  this  receptive  and 
responsive  mood  for  another  month.  Tell  me  what  you 
really  want?" 

Tim  hesitated.  Lasher,  as  he  knew,  babbled  sadly  of  his 
own  misfortunes  when  drunk,  but  not  of  the  affairs  of 
others.  Then  he  said,  using  the  expression  so  long  upper- 
most in  his  thoughts : 

"Well,  I  want  to  make  good.  A  lot  was  expected  of  me 
when  I  was  a  boy.  I  left  home  under  a  cloud.  I  have 
never  been  back." 

Lasher's  fine  eyes  twinkled.  He  was  now  immensely  wide 
awake,  stimulated  by  absinthe  to  an  acuteness  of  perception 
seldom  exercised. 

"I  understand  perfectly.  You  wish  to  return  to  your 
native  village  trailing  clouds  of  glory  which  will  hide  for- 
ever your  little  cloud  of  shame.  The  triumph  of  Tim!" 

"Something  like  that." 

"A  self-glorification,  to  be  brutally  frank  ?" 
306 


According  to  Lasher 

"If  you  like." 

"Well,  I  don't  like.  This  is  the  age  of  self-advertisement. 
And  I  loathe  it.  People,  nowadays,  gabble  more  about 
the  artist  than  his  work.  I  don't  think  the  artist  matters 
a  damn.  But  his  work,  if  it  is  the  real  stuff,  matters  tre- 
mendously. I  admit  that  artists  are  vain,  particularly  poets, 
but  I  say  let  the  poet  perish  if  only  one  sonnet  may  live. 
That  isn't  your  idea,  eh?" 

"Not  altogether." 

"I  thought  not.  And,  mind  you,  I'm  not  blaming  you. 
I  like  you,  Tim,  because  you're  so  human,  and  so  alive. 
Lord !  How  I  envy  you  that !  And  if  I  can  help  you,  I  will. 
You're  one  of  those  lucky  devils  whom  others  like  to  help. 
I  know  some  editors  and  publishers.  I  can  steer  you  a  bit. 
The  right  start  counts,  but  I  must  know  exactly  what  you're 
aiming  at." 

"Call  it  a  novel  that  people  want  to  read." 

"What  people  ?  Are  you  yearning  for  the  recognition  of 
the  few  or  the  many?" 

"Thomas  Hardy  appeals  to  both." 

"Urn !  So  he  does ;  but  he  won  the  few  before  the  many. 
I'll  put  it  like  this — are  you  contemplating  the  writing  of 
a  big  seller  ?" 

A  derisive,  sub-acid  intonation  provoked  Tim  to  reply 
with  some  heat: 

"I  want,  primarily,  to  work  at  something  which  will  en- 
gross me.  I'm  not  a  beginner,  Lasher.  I  served  a  fairly 
strenuous  apprenticeship  in  California.  And  I've  lived.  I 
know  the  seamy  side.  I  know  what  men  and  women  are. 
And  I've  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of  life,  which  I  can't  get 
on  to  canvas." 

"Soit !  Not  another  word  till  I've  seen  your  stuff.  Give 
it  to  me  now.  I'll  tackle  it  to-night.  And,  to-morrow,  at 
this  very  hour,  I'll  tell  you  honestly  what  I  think  about  it." 


307 


Timothy 


in 

Next  morning  Tim  went  for  a  walk  with  Alethea.  They 
climbed  the  hill  behind  the  town,  and  wandered  into  the 
much-restored  manor  house,  once  the  home  of  a  Russian 
princess,  now  a  historical  monument  and  a  museum.  In  it 
a  collection  of  warming-pans  challenged  Alethea's  interest 
and  curiosity.  These  warming-pans  had  warmed  the  beds 
of  queens,  if  you  could  credit  the  evidence  of  coats  of  arms 
engraved  upon  their  shining  backs.  Tim  said  idly: 

"I  wonder  if  the  Princess's  bed  was  cold  ?" 

He  had  to  explain  this  to  Alethea,  who  deemed  the 
remark  not  quite  proper.  Tim  went  on : 

"When  a  woman  collects  things,  I  always  have  my  sus- 
picions. Warming-pans  are  astoundingly  significant.  And 
one  feels  somehow  that  this  one,  if  it  be  genuine,  may  have 
been  a  comfort  to  Marie  Antoinette.  Juliet,  if  she  had 
lived,  might  have  collected  warming-pans." 

"Such  odd  things  you  say !  This  house  is  very  sad.  I'm 
sure  that  you  are  right.  The  princess  did  collect  things 
because  she  was  not  interested  in  persons.  I  have  collected 
things." 

"So  Otis  told  me." 

"I  daresay  I  was  imposed  upon." 

"It's  dead  certain  you  were." 

She  gave  a  little  shudder,  drawing  a  feather  boa  about 
her  thin  throat. 

"Let's  go  and  sit  in  the  garden." 

The  garden  showed  signs  of  neglect,  but  they  found  a 
seat  overlooking  the  harbour  and  the  sea.  Alethea  sighed 
contentedly,  but  Tim  was  frowning.  He  had  only  to  whistle 
and  Alethea  would  flutter  to  him  like  a  tame  canary.  Facing 
the  sun,  her  skin  looked  slightly  yellow.  She  moved  rest- 
lessly, expecting  him  to  speak.  He  sat  perfectly  still,  think- 
ing how  warm  and  pleasant  it  was.  An  odd  languor  pos- 
sessed him,  a  desire  to  drift  with  the  tide,  to  let  chance 
308 


According  to  Lasher 

carry  him  and  his  fortunes  whither  it  pleased.  And  all 
the  time  he  was  conscious  of  something  within  him  which 
fought  against  this  enervating  languor.  He  decided,  pres- 
ently, to  hear  Lasher's  verdict,  before  he  spoke  to  Alethea. 
Lasher  might  consider  his  writing  with  the  same  kind  con- 
tempt which  animated  Cabral  when  he  stared  at  Alethea's 
portrait. 

"How  silent  you  are !"  murmured  Alethea.  "But  I  don't 
mind  it;  I  rather  like  it." 

There  was  some  quality  in  her  meek-eyed  glance  which 
seemed  to  beseech  him  to  speak  now,  or  not  at  all. 

The  ancient  manor-house,  restored  and  expanded,  filled 
with  tapestries  and  rare  old  furniture,  with  armour  and 
porcelain  and  pictures,  presented  itself  as  an  agreeable  ob- 
ject lesson  of  what  a  rich  woman's  money  could  accomplish. 
A  conscience  which  wriggled  uneasily  at  the  thought  of  a 
marriage  of  convenience  was  calmed  with  subtle  sedatives. 
What  good  work  he  could  do  in  a  charming  home  of  his 
own !  How  much  could  be  done  for  others  with  Alethea's 
dollars !  What  a  difference  unlimited  gold  would  make  to 
hundreds  of  lives  in  and  about  Little  Pennington ! 

And  then  the  bleak,  ironic  reflection:  "How  easy  to  be 
generous  with  another's  money!  How  cheap  and  tawdry 
a  triumph!" 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"We  shall  be  late  for  dejeuner,"  he  said. 


IV 

He  spent  the  afternoon  alone,  wrestling  with  temptation, 
ravaged  by  it,  swept  hither  and  thither  by  gusty  ambition, 
able  to  measure  alike  his  strength  and  his  weakness,  and 
miserably  conscious  that  his  weakness  might  prevail. 

Remember  that  he  had  begged  his  bread  as  a  tramp,  that 
he  had  lain  weak  and  penniless  in  a  hospital.  If  his  health 
should  fail  him,  would  he  not  sink  inevitably  to  the  depths 

309 


Timothy 

which  engulfed  Lasher  and  Vilard  ?  To  place  oneself  high 
above  such  abominable  possibilities,  out  of  reach  of  For- 
tune's most  cruelly  barbed  arrows,  was  not  this  a  Heaven- 
sent opportunity  which  it  were  folly  to  pass  by? 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  at  six,  spent  in  mind  and  body. 
As  he  approached  the  terrasse,  he  could  see  Lasher  waiting 
for  him,  a  shrunk,  collapsed  figure,  a  wreck  of  a  man! 
The  poet,  on  closer  inspection,  exhibited  signs  of  impa- 
tience. 

He  drummed  on  the  marble-topped  table  with  fingers  to 
which  Alethea  cannot  be  blamed  for  taking  exception;  an 
empty  glass  stood  at  his  elbow  in  a  saucer  amongst  many 
ends  of  cigarettes.  Tim's  typescript  lay  beside  the  saucer. 
It  was  a  pleasant  evening  with  no  chill  in  the  breeze.  From 
the  masts  of  the  boats  in  the  basin  floated  the  filmy  blue 
nets  which  captured  the  elusive  sardine.  Upon  the  broad 
quay  men  and  women  were  talking  and  gesticulating.  Be- 
yond rose  the  grey  walls  of  the  Ville  Close,  the  walls  de- 
signed by  Vauban  to  keep  the  English  at  bay.  Tim  never 
looked  upon  those  solid  ramparts  without  reflecting  humor- 
ously upon  the  invasion  of  the  province  by  Britons. 

Lasher  said  quickly: 

"I've  read  every  line.  And,  by  Jove!  you  are  right  to 
chuck  painting.  Why  did  you  leave  this  remarkable  chroni- 
cle half  done?" 

Tim  explained  that  he  had  been  too  ill  to  write. 

"I  see,"  said  Lasher.  "Now,  it's  an  odd  fact  that  I  work 
better  when  I  feel  ill.  But,  of  course,  my  stuff  is  morbid. 
This  stuff  of  yours  is  healthy.  It's  full  of  vitality.  Finish 
it!  And  let  me  red-pencil  it.  Then  you  must  have  it  re- 
typed, and  I'll  charge  myself  with  sending  it  to  the  right 
publisher.  You  need  a  fellow  who'll  boom  you  as  a  new 
and  original  author.  First  and  last  it  shows  extraordinary 
promise.  I  think  it  will  catch  on,  but  one  never  knows. 
You've  been  well  trained." 

Tim  mentioned  Hoyt.  Lasher  listened,  nodding  his  head 
310 


According  to  Lasher 

with  its  shock  of  unkempt  black  hair.  Then  he  said 
abruptly : 

"How  old  are  you,  Tim?" 

"Nearly  thirty-three." 

"That's  the  right  age.  Young  writers  suffer  from  their 
appalling  ignorance  of  life.  However  gifted  they  may  be, 
they  turn  out  unreal  stuff,  which  damns  the  better  stuff 
which  follows.  You've  escaped  that.  I'll  just  add  this. 
I  never  believed  in  you  as  a  painter.  Nor  has  Vilard.  It 
helped  to  tide  you  over  a  bad  time.  And  you're  clever 
enough  and  versatile  enough  to  make  a  living  at  it,  which 
is  something.  This,"  he  tapped  the  manuscript,  "captivated 
me,  and  I'm  hard  to  please.  It  has  freshness,  humour,  and 
it's  on  the  side  of  the  angels.  The  public  love  that.  Also, 
it's  simply  written.  Now  don't  get  a  swelled  head.  In  ten 
years,  if  you  concentrate  all  energies  upon  doing  the  very 
best  of  which  you  are  capable,  you  may  write  a  big  book. 
I  don't  want  to  say  another  word  till  you've  finished  this 
thing  according  to  your  present  lights.  Then  we'll  go  over 
every  line  together." 

"You're  a  trump,  Lasher." 

"What  are  you?"  asked  Lasher.  "Shall  we  say  an  archi- 
pelago of  possibilities.  Lord !  How  thirsty  I  am." 

Tim  took  the  hint.    Lasher  sipped  his  poison,  murmuring : 

"I'm  glad  you  kept  away  from  this." 

Never  had  Tim  felt  so  sorry  for  him.  He  wondered 
whether  Lasher  could  be  reclaimed.  The  poet,  reading  his 
thoughts,  answered  them  derisively : 

"Absinthe  helps  me  to  do  my  best  work.  It's  what  opium 
was  to  De  Quincey.  By  the  way,  Tim,  can  you  work  at 
writing  without  arty  thought  whatever  of  pot-boiling?" 

"I've  enough  for  a  year." 

"And  nobody  stands  between  you  and  your  work?" 

His  dark  eyes  glittered  feverishly.    Tim  flushed. 

"No — woman  ?" 

Tim  remained  for  an  instant  silent,  wondering  if  Lasher 


Timothy 

could  have  guessed  what  was  in  his  mind.  He  decided  that 
Otis  must  have  been  indiscreet.  He  decided,  also,  that 
Lasher  was  keyed  up  to  a  strange  pitch.  Then  he  heard 
the  poet's  mocking  laugh,  and  his  mocking  words : 

"You  were  thinking  just  now  of  reclaiming  me.  That's 
a  hopeless  job.  At  the  same  moment  I  was  thinking  of 
reclaiming  you.  If  I  could,  by  God!  it  might  be  an  asset, 
when  the  final  accounting  comes." 

"You're  very  drunk,  my  dear  old  man." 

"In  vino  veritas.  You  come  with  me.  I've  something 
to  say  to  you,  something  to  tell  you.  I'll  play  the  scare- 
crow for  you.  I'll  flap  naked  to  the  wind  for  you  because 
I'm  fond  of  you,  Tim." 

He  stood  up.  Tim  stood  up  also,  as  if  he  moved  beneath 
a  spell.  Lasher  took  his  arm,  gripping  it.  Through  a  thin 
sleeve  Tim  felt  burning  fingers. 

"I'm  pot-valiant,"  said  Lasher.  "Come,  my  son,  while 
the  spirit  of  la  reine  verte  still  fortifies  me." 

He  walked  unsteadily  across  the  quay.  Tim  went  with 
him.  They  passed  the  causeway,  and  approached  the  stone 
digue,  now  deserted.  Lasher  pressed  on,  saying  nothing, 
staring  at  the  sea.  The  tide  was  out;  and  Tim  could  smell 
the  varech  on  the  wet  rocks.  Afterwards,  whenever  he 
recalled  this  evening,  that  pungent  odour  would  assail  his 
nostrils. 

They  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  digue.  Lasher  sat  upon 
the  parapet,  dangling  his  feet.  Tim  stood  facing  him,  filled 
with  curiosity.  Lasher  had  a  trick  of  reading  his  own 
poems  in  a  voice  singularly  free  from  inflection,  an  impres- 
sive monotone,  as  if  he  wished  to  present  his  wares  as 
simply  as  possible.  At  such  times,  Tim  was  reminded  of 
the  Vicar,  who  delivered  his  message  in  a  similar  imper- 
sonal manner.  Lasher  chose  to  assume  this  monotone  now. 
His  voice  seemed  to  reach  Tim  from  a  distance,  as  if  the 
speaker  had  travelled  far  back  into  the  past. 

"I  told  you  that  I  enjoyed  once  a  sort  of  mild  success. 
312 


According  to  Lasher 

And  amazing  as  it  may  seem  now,  I  was  rather  attractive 
as  a  young  man.  My  people  lived  in  Bayswater.  My  father 
and  my  brothers  were  and  are  in  business — up  to  their 
thick  red  necks.  From  the  first  I  was  regarded  as  a  bit  of 
a,  freak.  They  were  furious  with  me  because  I  preferred 
quill-riding  to  quill-driving.  They  were  stupid,  stolid  peo- 
ple ;  and  they  guessed,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  be  a  burden 
to  them,  that  I  should  never  be  what  they  called  'self-sup- 
porting.' But  deep  down  in  their  fat  commercial  souls  flut- 
tered the  hope  that  I  might  marry  money.  To  that  desirable 
end  they  conspired  together.  I  was  ear-marked  for  a  ward 
of  my  father's.  I'll  say  this  about  her :  she  was  amorphously 
commonplace.  The  only  sign  of  intelligence  that  I  could 
find  was  her  liking  for  me.  That,  of  course,  appealed  to  my 
vanity,  nothing  else.  She  bored  me  to  tears!  But  I  said 
to  myself  that  with  her  money — she  had  about  two  thousand 
a  year — I  could  devote  myself  to  writing.  And  so — I  mar- 
ried her." 

"You  married  her,"  repeated  Tim. 

Lasher  laughed. 

"It  was  infamous,  empurpled  prostitution.  I  want  t  to 
rub  that  in.  I  left  my  self-respect  at  the  altar,  and  it  may 
be  there  still.  In  the  vestry,  after  the  ceremony,  my  mother, 
in  nodding  plumes,  and  still  dove-grey  silk,  kissed  me  fondly 
and  whispered:  'How  beautifully,  dearest,  everything  has 
gone !'  I  replied,  I  remember,  with  a  humour  rather  credit- 
able at  such  a  moment :  'Everything  has  gone !'  And  she 
never  saw  the  point.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  my  self-respect 
never  came  back,  which  accounts  for  a  lot.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  feel  sorry  for  my  wife,  but  she  knew  jolly  well  what  she 
was  doing.  She  did  for  me.  We  had  two  children." 

"Children,"  echoed  Tim,  stupefied  at  these  revelations. 

"Two  pulpy  kids  cut  to  the  Lasher  pattern.  She  was  a 
cousin  of  sorts,  I  must  tell  you.  She  inherited  the  family 
obstinacy  and  conceit.  The  great  sell  of  her  life  was  not 
marrying  me,  but  the  discovery  shortly  afterwards  that  she 

313 


Timothy 

couldn't  make  me  over  to  suit  her  notions.  She  boasted 
to  her  people  that  she  would  and  could  remodel  me !  Poor 
little  fool !  I'm  afraid  I  gave  her  the  deuce  of  a  time.  I  had 
a  typist,  a  very  clever,  jolly  girl,  who  understood  me.  Amy 
— my  wife's  name  was  Amy;  it  couldn't  be  anything  else, 
could  it? — Amy  hired  a  private  detective.  There  was  an 
awful  row,  a  poisonous,  back-biting  scene  in  my  father's 
drawing-room.  It  had  to  be  repapered  afterwards.  It  was 
agreed  solemnly  that  I  must  choose  between  Amy  and  the 
other.  I  chose  the  other.  That's  all  that  matters." 

The  smell  of  the  varech  grew  stronger;  the  sea  breeze 
held  a  sudden  chill.  Tim  stammered  out :  "And  the  other?" 

Lasher  laughed,  spreading  out  his  hands,  a  trick  he  had 
caught  from  Vilard. 

"I  bolted  from  Bayswater  for  ever  and  ever,  but  I  hadn't 
the  pluck  to  take  the  other  with  me.  She  wanted  to  come ! 
I'm  glad  she  didn't.  She's  all  right,  happily  married.  My 
remarkable  abstention  in  regard  to  her  may  be  acclaimed  as 
a  solitary  virtue.  The  unpardonable  sin  against  myself, 
mark  you !  was  marrying  Amy." 

Tim  said  nothing;  Lasher  could  see  that  he  was  tremen- 
dously impressed.  He  dropped  his  monotone,  and  spoke 
vehemently : 

"Men  make  their  own  particular  hells  on  earth.  The 
most  abysmal  of  all  is  a  loveless  marriage.  I  think  I  could 
do  with  just  one  more  drink." 

They  returned  to  the  hotel.  Tim  dined  with  Otis  and 
Alethea.  After  dinner  they  sat  out  together,  enjoying  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  Presently,  from  the  shadows  of  the 
dimly-lighted  market-place,  two  men,  arm  in  arm,  lurched 
into  view.  They  passed  within  a  few  yards  of  Alethea; 
and  one  of  them  was  bawling  a  chanson  d'atelier. 

Mon  pere  me  maria! 

He,  piou,  piou!     Tra-la-la! 
Mon  pere  me  maria 

Au  fils  d'un  avocat — ah — ah — ah — ah! 

314 


According  to  Lasher 

"Mercy!"  exclaimed  Alethea.     "That  was  your  friend, 
Mr.  Lasher.    Has  he  lost  every  shred  of  self-respect?" 
Tim  answered  sombrely. 
"He  has.    He  left  it  on  an  altar  in  a  Bayswater  church." 


315 


CHAPTER  V 

FORTUNE  SMILES 


TIM  bolted  from  Concarneau  the  next  morning,  taking 
his  novel  with  him  to  Rochefort-en-terre,  and  leaving 
his  colour-box  behind.  He  chalked  upon  it  R.I. P.  He  left 
behind,  also,  a  letter  for  Alethea,  a  composition  which  ex- 
acted hours  of  not  too  agreeable  thought.  Finally,  two 
closely- written  sheets  were  boiled  down  to  a  couple  of  pages. 
He  stated  the  bald  fact.  He  was  going  away  to  work  at 
his  novel  amongst  the  hills,  which  he  hoped  might  inspire 
him.  He  ended  simply:  "I  have  wrestled  with  myself. 
I  feel  as  Rupert  Carteret  did.  I  must  find  the  work  which 
really  engrosses  me.  Perhaps  that  is  all  that  is  left."  Then 
he  thanked  her  for  many  pleasant  hours  passed  in  her 
company,  and  expressed  a  vague  wish  that  they  might 
meet  again.  He  encountered  Otis  at  early  breakfast.  That 
sophisticated  schemer  said  significantly: 

"I  hope  this  isn't  an  irrevocable  blunder." 

"It's  irrevocable,"  replied  Tim  curtly. 

"I  think  you  must  have  eaten  the  loco  weed  in  California." 

"Perhaps  I  did." 

A  laugh  from  Otis  dispelled  the  slight  coolness  between 
them.  He  said  delightfully: 

"Old  Tim,  you  may  be  sane  enough  about  this  novel- 
writing.  Last  time  I  was  in  London  town  I  found  Mudie's 
crowded,  and  the  National  Gallery  almost  empty." 

This  absence  of  illusion  in  the  American  was  not  unbe- 
coming in  the  Man,  but  left  the  Artist  rather  stark.  What 
was  an  Artist  without  illusions  ?  A  fountain  without  spray ! 
316 


Fortune  Smiles 

Tim  loved  Otis,  and  could  appreciate  his  point  of  view 
while  the  conviction  gathered  irresistibly  that  his  friend  and 
he  looked  at  life  with  different  eyes.  Otis  knew  what  he 
wanted.  He  had  become  extremely  ingenious  and  prehen- 
sile in  the  practice  of  his  art,  so  much  so  that,  given  a  pupil 
with  technical  dexterity,  he  could  almost  "dictate"  a  pic- 
ture. He  applied  his  ingenuity  as  skilfully  in  the  sale  of 
stuff,  which  might  well  be  termed  "machines."  Humanly 
speaking,  he  would  arrive  at  his  goal — public  recognition  of 
an  ability  to  paint  marines  branded  as  his,  although  each 
contained  much  that  was  pilfered  from  others. 

Otis  dropped  a  hint  that  Alethea  would  find  consolation  in 
the  person  of  an  Italian  prince,  whom  he  nicknamed  Capo 
di  Monte,  because  he  was  so  decorative.  Tim  guessed  that 
Alethea's  interest  in  the  Russian  princess  might  have  been 
quickened  by  a  premonition  that  a  coronet  glittered  for  her 
out  of  a  misty  future.  A  "position"  counted  greatly  with 
the  little  lady. 

Altogether  he  felt  wonderfully  exhilarated  when  he  found 
himself  alone  in  the  train. 


ii 

The  door  of  the  ancient  inn  at  Rochefort  stood  hospitably 
open  when  Tim  descended  some  hours  later  from  the  dili- 
gence. Two  smiling  spinsters  greeted  him  cordially,  and 
assured  him  that  he  would  not  be  disturbed  by  noisy  tourists. 

"Tout  est  calme  chez  nous,"  they  murmured. 

Tim  wandered  through  the  quaint  village  before  dinner, 
noting  the  grass  in  the  streets,  the  lichen  on  the  grey  walls, 
and  the  curiously  carved  doorways.  Silence  and  peace 
soothed  him.  This  was  indeed  a  sanctuary  for  a  man  who 
desired  to  give  undivided  energies  to  writing,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  detach  himself  as  far  as  possible  from  his 
surroundings. 

He  was  ushered  into  a  scrupulously  clean,  freshly  white- 
washed bedroom,  overlooking  the  valley  below.  The  en- 

317 


Timothy 

compassing  hills  were  rugged  and  rocky,  covered  for  the 
most  part  with  pines.  He  could  smell  the  resin,  balsamic 
fragrance  very  different  from  the  odours  of  a  fishing  port. 
Flowers  bloomed  in  old-fashioned  gardens ;  vines  wandered 
everywhere.  He  breathed,  in  fine,  a  lighter,  brighter,  more 
benignant  air.  A  blurred  past  gave  promise  of  a  clearer 
present.  In  his  recovered  perception  of  "values,"  he  saw 
that  any  triumph  worth  the  winning  must  be  engineered  by 
himself  alone.  And  the  conviction  that  he  had  rounded  a 
dangerous  corner  made  him  feel  almost  young  again. 

For  twenty- four  hours  he  rested  on  folded  wings,  know- 
ing that  soon  he  would  soar  into  the  blue. 


in 

He  remained  at  Rochef ort-en-terre  for  three  months, 
working  hard.  At  first  he  experienced  enormous  difficulty : 
but  slowly  the  ability  to  write  came  back,  and  with  it  a  sense 
of  the  immense  advantage  which  the  quill  has  over  the  brush. 
At  times  he  laughed  at  the  notion  that  he  could  ever  have 
been  fatuous  enough  to  think  that  he  could  express  himself 
in  colour.  For  it  came  ultimately  to  that.  What  he  craved 
was  self-expression.  His  half-finished  novel  engrossed  and 
captivated  Lasher,  because  it  was  so  obviously  a  sincere 
record,  a  transcript  of  life  as  it  is  lived  in  a  new  country  by 
men  and  women  untrammelled  by  the  conventions  of  a  too 
complex  civilisation. 

A  refreshed  consciousness  of  the  past,  that  happy  past 
at  Agua  Caliente,  was  so  clearly  envisaged  at  Rochefort  that 
it  seemed  to  become  the  present.  He  tasted  joys  again  which 
then  had  been  gobbled  too  swiftly.  Now  they  lingered  upon 
his  palate,  like  the  bouquet  of  a  fine  wine.  He  was  in  no 
hurry,  realising  that  haste  had  always  been  his  enemy.  He 
seemed  to  be  strolling  leisurely  to  an  inevitable  end,  keenly 
observant,  afraid  only  that  he  might  lose  the  elusive  atmos- 
318 


Fortune  Smiles 

phere,  so  distractingly  iridescent,  which  coloured  his  memo- 
ries and  fancies. 

He  had  never  been  so  happy  since  Magdalena's  death. 
Indeed,  it  occurred  to  him  that  Magdalena  hovered  near 
him.  She  glided  into  his  dreams  with  a  tender  smile  upon 
her  dear  face,  whispering  her  love.  That  revealed  itself 
more  conspicuously  than  ever  as  the  supreme  thing  in  life, 
a  platitude  upon  every  lip,  but  how  seldom  assimilated ! 

He  returned  to  Concarneau  for  Christmas  with  the  com- 
pleted manuscript  in  his  bag.  The  warmth  of  his  reception 
touched  him  deeply.  His  comrades  had  missed  him.  He 
felt  ashamed  to  think  that  he  had  not  missed  them ;  for  his 
work  had  engrossed  him.  They  told  him  that  there  was 
much  distress  in  the  town,  and  later  Otis  showed  him  a 
cheque  just  received  from  Alethea,  a  hundred  pounds  for 
the  women  and  children. 

"We  are  to  distribute  it,"  said  Otis.  "She  named  you, 
old  man." 

"Is  Mrs.  Boal  in  Paris?" 

"No,  Florence.  The  Italian  Prince  has  got  her.  He's 
not  a  bad  chap;  and  her  money  is  settled  on  herself,  tight 
as  wax.  All  the  same " 

He  made  a  gesture.  Tim  said  emphatically:  "She  had 
an  escape  from  me." 

"Wasn't  it  the  other  way  about  ?  However,  the  incident, 
as  the  papers  say,  is  closed." 

"Hermetically  sealed,"  added  Tim. 

"Is  the  great  work  done?" 

"It  is.    We'll  see  what  Lasher  says." 

Lasher  said  some  encouraging  things,  and  assisted  Tim 
in  the  final  revision,  deleting  adjectives  and  adverbs  with 
ruthless  energy.  Finally,  the  book  was  sent  to  England 
to  be  re-typed,  with  instructions  to  the  typist  to  send  the 
fair  copy  to  Broad,  the  publisher.  Lasher  wrote  to  Broad, 
assuring  him  that  the  novel  merited  special  attention;  but 
Tim  had  to  wait  a  weary  fortnight  before  he  heard  from 
the  great  man.  Broad  offered  to  publish  it  in  the  Spring, 

319 


Timothy 

paying  twenty-five  pounds  on  account  of  royalties,  and  ten 
per  cent  on  every  six-shilling  copy  sold  up  to  two  thousand. 
If  more  copies  were  sold,  the  royalty  would  be  increased 
to  twelve  and  a  half,  and  ultimately  fifteen  if  the  ten  thou- 
sand mark  were  achieved.  Lasher  said  that  the  terms  were 
just  rather  than  generous.  Broad  could  be  trusted  to  do 
all  that  was  possible ;  he  had  read  the  novel  and  liked  it. 
No  man  living  could  predict  how  a  work  by  an  unknown 
author  would  be  received  by  the  British  public. 

"We  are  justified,"  said  Tim,  "in  having  a  celebration." 
A  dinner  duly  took  place  on  Twelfth  Night,  and  is  still 
spoken  of  in  Concarneau  as  the  finest  gastronomic  effort  of 
the  chef  at  the  Hotel  des  Voyageurs. 

IV 

"My  stock  is  booming,"  said  Tim  to  Otis,  some  three 
weeks  later. 

He  shewed  Otis  a  letter  just  received  from  his  attorney 
in  Santa  Barbara.  The  Syndicate  owning  Agua  Caliente 
had  sold  the  property  for  four  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
Tim's  share,  in  terms  English,  amounted  to  eight  thousand 
pounds,  which  would  be  remitted  by  draft  within  a  month. 

"Another  celebration,"  said  Otis. 

Never  did  Fortune  dispense  a  favour  more  opportunely. 
Tim  was  waiting  for  proof,  and  unable  to  begin  another 
book.  A  listless  reaction  had  set  in ;  he  lay  awake  wonder- 
ing whether  ideas  for  a  second  novel  would  ever  come  to 
him.  Lasher  cheered  him  up: 

"The  ideas  will  arrive  in  battalions.  Never  worry  about 
that.  For  the  moment  you're  played  out,  an  excellent  sign. 
It  shews  that  you  put  all  you  had  into  Dust." 

That  was  the  title  of  Tim's  book.  It  dealt  largely  with 
the  dry  years  in  California,  but  at  the  end  rain  laid  the 
dust. 

He  had  thoughts  of  returning  to  Little  Pennington,  but 
decided  that  he  couldn't  face  the  Lenten  season.  However, 
320 


Fortune  Smiles 

he  wrote  to  the  Vicar  that  he  might  be  expected  after  Easter. 
And  he  wrote  also  to  Daffy,  telling  her  that  at  last  he  had 
drifted  into  snug  anchorage.  Daffy  congratulated  him 
warmly.  At  the  end  of  her  letter  she  told  Tim  that  Rokeby 
had  just  left  England  for  East  Africa,  where  he  hoped  to 
slay  many  lions.  She  concluded :  "A  friend  and  I  are 
thinking  of  spending  a  few  weeks  in  Brittany.  Don't  be 
surprised  if  you  see  us  in  Concarneau."  He  replied  by 
return  of  post  urging  her  to  come,  saying  that  it  would 
give  him  enormous  pleasure,  and  singing  the  praises  of 
Finistere  in  early  Spring. 

The  thought  of  seeing  Daffy,  and  the  horrid  fear  that 
he  mightn't,  brimmed  him  with  excitements.  Renewed  in- 
tercourse with  this  old  friend  would  be  the  keystone  of  the 
arch  which  bridged  the  past  and  the  future.  He  had  never 
lost  touch  with  her.  He  knew  that  they  would  meet  with 
no  exasperating,  unsuspected  differences  and  discrepancies, 
such  as  marred  so  many  f oregatherings  between  friends  long 
severed. 

He  tried  to  analyse  his  feeling  for  Daffy,  but  it  escaped 
analysis.  They  had  both  changed;  but  such  change  had 
not  affected  his  conviction  that  he  would  be  more  at  home 
with  her  than  anybody  else,  which  constituted  a  rare  felicity, 
a  sense  of  well-being,  warming  a  man  to  the  core.  He  de- 
cided impatiently  that  if  she  didn't  come  to  him  soon,  he 
must  go  to  her. 

She  came  a  few  days  later. 


He  heard  of  her  arrival  from  the  good  landlady.  Madame, 
she  said,  was  out ;  her  friend  was  lying  down,  fatigued  after 
the  journey.  Madame  did  not  look  fatigued.  Much  the  con- 
trary! What  a  beauty,  that  one!  And  of  a  distinction! 
Tim  listened  impatiently.  He  wanted  to  meet  Daffy  alone. 
He  felt  sure  that  the  same  desire  animated  her.  Where 

321 


Timothy 

had  she  gone  ?  The  landlady  apostrophised  her  patron  Saint. 
How  could  she  tell? 

Tim  rushed  into  the  market-place.  The  wind  blew  from 
the  west.  Daffy  would  stroll  up-wind.  That  was  certain. 
He  would  find  her  gazing  across  the  sea. 

He  found  her  not  far  from  the  little  grey  chapel  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Bon  Secours,  the  chapel  facing  the  sea,  in  which 
the  women  gather  together  to  pray,  when  the  storms  rage, 
and  the  men  they  love  are  in  deadly  peril.  He  saw  her 
tall,  slender  figure,  and  quickened  his  steps.  His  heart 
throbbed.  In  a  moment  she  would  turn,  holding  out  both 
her  hands,  smiling  sagaciously. 

And  it  was  so.  Although  he  moved  lightly,  her  quick 
ear  caught  his  step.  Swiftly  she  turned,  a  glad  exclama- 
tion escaping  her : 

"Tim!" 

"Daffy,  dear !    This  is  splendid." 

He  was  holding  her  small  hands,  gazing  into  her  blue 
eyes,  unable  to  speak,  thinking  of  his  dead  wife  and  the 
years  that  the  locusts  had  eaten,  reading,  too,  the  writing 
upon  her  fine  face,  noting  the  subtle  changes  which  Time 
had  wrought,  deciding  that  she  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  a  noble  woman,  nobly  planned. 

She  sighed  as  she  withdrew  her  hands. 

"You  heard  me  coming?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

His  heart  swelled  with  exultation.  That  she  had  heard 
meant  so  much,  a  thousand  things  never  to  be  put  into 
words. 

"Let  us  walk  to  the  rocks,  Daffy.  How  clever  of  you  to 
choose  this  very  moment !  How  like  you  !" 

The  tide  was  out.  The  rocks,  covered  with  varech, 
stretched  into  the  sea.  Tiny  waves  rippled  against  them. 
Upon  the  horizon  the  islets  of  Glenan  lay  sofly  blue,  seen 
through  a  thin  silvery  mist.  To  the  right  was  the  Point  of 
Penmarch.  Brooding  over  the  sea,  as  if,  like  Aphrodite, 
322 


Fortune  Smiles 

she  had  just  emerged  from  the  deep,  hovered  the  Spirit 
of  Spring. 

"How  heavenly!"  said  Daffy. 

They  moved  slowly  across  the  beach.  The  gulls  were 
mewing  overhead ;  the  brown-sailed  boats  glided  home.  It 
was  impossible  to  say  anything  because  there  was  so  much 
to  say.  Impulse  moved  Tim  to  utter  wild  words,  to  tell 
his  dear  friend  that  this  moment  had  become  an  imperishable 
experience,  that  the  sight  of  her  held  a  grace  and  a  bene- 
diction which  even  she  could  never  understand.  In  the 
darkness,  with  the  great  light  of  Penmarch  flashing  inter- 
mittently, he  might  have  spoken.  He  held  his  peace,  because 
Peace  seemed  to  dominate  all  things  and  all  men. 

"You  are  in  mourning,"  he  said. 

"My  mother  is  dead." 

She  stated  the  fact  calmly.  Tim  offered  no  condolence. 
His  grudge  against  Mrs.  Carmichael  vanished.  She  became 
to  him  what  the  dry  years  had  been,  dust  of  an  irrevocable 
past.  Daffy  murmured  almost  inaudibly: 

"Poor  mother !     She  meant  well." 

That  was  her  epitaph,  spoken  by  the  child  of  her  womb. 
Did  she  know  now,  this  masterful  woman,  that  meaning 
well  she  had  wrought  ill?  Had  death  sealed  her  hard  eyes 
only  to  open  them  to  the  light?  What  an  awakening  that 
would  be !  Tim  hesitated ;  then  he  said  quietly : 

"Did  your  mother  arrange  your  marriage?" 

"Yes,"  said  Daffy. 

Without  another  word,  he  understood  that  Daffy  had 
ceased  to  harbour  hard  thoughts  against  her  mother.  They, 
too,  were  dust  which  tears  has  washed  away  forever. 

"Tell  me  about  your  book,"  said  Daffy. 

"My  book  is  myself,  Daffy." 

"I  know ;  that  is  why  I  want  to  hear  all  about  it." 

"You  are  exactly  the  same,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Only  in  that,"  she  answered. 


323 


Timothy 


VI 

Tim,  however,  did  not  talk  of  his  book;  he  proposed  to 
read  the  rough  draft  aloud  to  her.  He  asked  for  news  of 
the  Vicar.  Had  she  been  to  Little  Pennington? 

"My  mother  is  buried  there." 

She  continued  tranquilly,  her  eyes  softening  when  she 
spoke  of  the  Vicar.  The  dear  man  was  well,  unchanged,  a 
saint  for  all  sinners  to  admire  and  love. 

"I  long  to  see  him  again." 

"But  why  haven't  you?    Was  it  fair  to  him?" 

For  his  mother's  sake,  he  dared  not  tell  the  truth.  And 
without  it  explanations  and  excuses  gave  out  a  hollow  sound. 

"Don't  press  me  too  hard,  Daffy.  I  couldn't.  I  felt  the 
same  about  meeting  you." 

She  smiled:     "What  a  pride!" 

"Go  on  ;  tell  me  about  the  village." 

She  did  so  with  an  admirable  simplicity. 

"It  remains  a  resting-place.  I  like  to  go  there.  I  was 
confirmed  in  the  church." 

"Do  you  think  I  had  forgotten  ?" 

"I  can  even  look  with  melancholy  pleasure  at  the  stained 
glass  windows." 

"Like  the  apostolic  Benner.    Is  he  alive  ?" 

"Very  much  so.  He  is  never  happier  than  when  talking 
about  you.  You  are  not  forgotten,  Tim." 

"It  is  pleasant  to  hear  that." 

"I  sat  in  the  Dell,  but  the  cave  has  fallen  in.  The  limes 
in  the  churchyard  have  been  pollarded." 

"Did  my — my  father  talk  much  to  you  of  me  ?«" 

"Oh,  yes." 

But  she  did  not  repeat  what  the  Vicar  had  said.  Tim 
remained  silent,  thinking  that  the  water  of  her  mind  was  too 
clear  and  bright  for  fishing.  He  said  pensively: 

"We  have  corresponded  regularly ;  I  have  all  his  letters ; 

and  yet " 

324 


Fortune  Smiles 

He  paused,  meeting  her  glance,  wondering  why  it  was 
interrogative. 

"And  yet ?" 

"Ah,  well,  you  can  read  them.  They  are  concerned  with 
me  and  others,  not  enough  with  himself." 

"I  can  understand  that  you  don't  know  him — really.  That 
is  something  illuminating  to  come." 

"Daffy,  do  you  feel  that  you  know  him?" 

"Yes." 

Her  reserves  exasperated  him,  but  he  accepted  them  with 
the  compensating  reflection  that  if  the  Vicar  still  remained 
something  of  a  mystery,  she — bless  her! — in  her  attitude 
towards  himself  was  the  same  sweet  creature  not  ashamed 
of  her  loyalty  and  affection  for  the  lover  of  childhood. 

"What  a  friend  you  are !"  he  exclaimed. 

She  flushed  delicately,  smiling  at  his  enthusiasm. 

As  they  returned  to  the  hotel,  she  told  him  about  Alice 
Peronet,  a  sage,  who  from  the  high  tower  of  a  chaste  widow- 
hood beheld  mankind  as  mostly  fools. 

"Your  watch-dog?" 

"That  is  quite  unnecessary.  No;  a  pal.  You  will  like 
her." 

"I  shall  adore  her  if  she  leaves  us  alone." 

"We  must  leave  her  alone;  she  bargained  for  that." 

He  spoke  briefly  of  his  friends,  whom  she  met  presently 
on  the  terrasse;  and  he  perceived  that  she  was  seeing  him 
through  them.  She  was  especially  kind  to  Lasher,  winning 
him  at  once  by  the  quotation  of  a  line  from  one  of  his 
poems.  The  men  surrounded  her,  paying  homage.  She 
accepted  it  with  the  air  of  a  great  lady  accustomed  to  lip- 
service  and  able  to  appraise  it. 

Mrs.  Peronet  joined  them.  Tim  eyed  her  with  interest. 
If  Daffy  essayed  a  better  knowledge  of  himself  through  the 
personalities  of  his  comrades,  why  should  not  he  achieve  a 
surer  analysis  of  her  through  Mrs.  Peronet? 

At  first  sight  the  petticoated  sage  challenged  pity.  She 

325 


Timothy 

looked  frail  and  insignificant  till  her  eyes  flashed.  And 
the  grasp  of  an  emaciated  claw  was  reassuring,  almost  de- 
fiantly so,  as  if  it  were  a  warning  not  to  confound  physical 
weakness  with  lack  of  vitality.  When  Daffy  met  her  with 
the  obligatory  question :  "I  hope,  Alice,  you  aren't  too 
tired?"  she  replied  trenchantly:  "Tired,  my  dear!  I'm 
never  tired  in  a  new  place  amongst  new  people."  And  it 
was  she,  not  Daffy,  who  insisted  upon  dining  at  the  long 
table  where  Cabral  presided.  She  said  to  Tim : 

"Good  food  is  wasted  on  me.  I  eat  enough,  no  more,  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together.  Good  talk  nourishes  me." 

She  was  so  thin,  that  Tim  was  tempted  to  reply: 

"I  fear  you  have  not  had  much  of  it  lately." 

She  deftly  picked  the  unspoken  thought  out  of  his  mind. 

"I  hope  to  gain  weight  here." 

After  dinner,  in  the  cafe,  Cabral  and  Otis  captured  Daffy. 
Tim  found  himself  alone  with  Mrs.  Peronet,  who  smoked 
many  cigarettes.  He  discovered  that  Daffy  was  her 
favourite  theme  of  conversation.  He  wondered  whether 
Daffy  were  aware  of  this.  Did  she  realise,  hating,  as  she 
did,  to  talk  about  herself,  that  Alice  Peronet  would  tell  what 
she  shrank  from  telling.  It  might  well  be  so. 

Mrs.  Peronet  liked  straight  going.  She  said  abruptly 
to  him: 

"Of  course  we  came  here  to  inspect  you." 

"Capital.     I'm  in  parade  order." 

"Appearances  are  a  mockery.  You  look  uncommonly 
well.  I  look  ill  and  spooky,  but  really  I'm  one  of  the 
healthiest  and  sanest  women  in  the  world.  I  wanted  to 
meet  you,  Mr.  White,  because  I'm  Daffy's  best  woman 
friend,  and  I  know  what  her  affection  is  for  you.  I  hope 
you're  worthy  of  it." 

"I  share  that  hope,"  replied  Tim  gravely. 

"She  is  quite  wonderful ;  and  I  can  assure  you  that  I  have 
the  soundest  critical  apprehension  of  her." 

Her  sparkling  eyes  challenged  him  to  ask  questions. 
326 


Fortune  Smiles 

"I  can  see,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "that  she  has  suffered." 
"It  has  strengthened  her.     Rokeby  is  an  egotist  and  a 
fool." 

"Why  did  she  marry  him?  I  met  him  in  California, 
as  you  know."  She  nodded ;  he  continued  eagerly  :  "I  saw 
that  the  marriage  was  a  failure,  but  I  dafred  not  ask  her 
why  she  had  chosen  him." 

Mrs.  Peronet  laughed  scornfully. 

"I  guessed  then  what  I  know  to-day,  that  her  mother 
made  the  match,  but  Daffy  has  a  strong  will  of  her  own." 
"That  caused  the  trouble.  Her  will  clashed  with  her 
mother's.  There  were  ructions  between  them  at  home. 
That  is  the  primary  cause  of  most  disastrous  marriages. 
Rokeby  was  a  great  parti.  Mrs.  Carmichael  played  her 
cards  cleverly.  She  gave  Rokeby  to  understand  that  Daffy 
was  in  love  with  him ;  she  persuaded  Daffy  that  Rokeby 
was  in  love  with  her — the  wicked,  silly  game  which  has 
wrecked  so  many  lives.  Daffy,  poor  innocent!  fondly  be- 
lieved that  she  would  be  a  helpmeet  to  Rokeby.  Oh,  the 
fatuity  of  it !  That  is  at  once  her  strength  and  her  weak- 
ness, the  desire  to  help  others,  which  was  inspired  in  her 
by  your  father." 
"By  him?" 

"Surely  you  knew  that?" 
"It  has  escaped  me." 
Mrs.  Peronet  seemed  surprised. 
"He  is  a  saint,  sanctified  by  self-sacrifice." 
"I  give  you  my  word  that  I  never  saw  her  by  his  light." 
"She  must  be  seen  in  the  right  light." 
Tim  said  warmly :    "Daffy  can  brave  the  sun." 
"I  tell  you  she  is  best  seen  by  reflected  light." 
"Talking  with  you,  I  am  beginning  to  believe  it." 
"Her  early  upbringing  has  been  a  tremendous  influence, 
colouring  and  discolouring  all  her  actions.    I  have  been  to 
the  happy  village;  and  I'm  not  surprised.     And  often  and 
often  I've  wondered  whether  Daffy's  affection  for  the  Vicar 

327 


Timothy 


of  Little  Pennington  is  a  radiation  of  her  affection  for  you, 
or  vice  versa." 

Tim  made  no  reply. 

He  went  to  bed  feeling  exuberantly  happy. 


VII 

Daffy  and  Alice  Peronet  listened  to  the  reading  aloud  of 
Dust.  They  sat  in  Timothy's  studio,  where  Alethea's  por- 
trait framed  rather  too  gorgeously,  stood  upon  the  big  easel. 
Tim  had  promised  to  send  it  to  the  Salon ;  and  Cabral  just 
hinted,  no  more,  that  he  might  pull  strings  with  the  jury.  At 
any  rate,  the  good  fellow  promised  that  the  portrait  should 
be  generously  considered.  Otis  said : 

"It'll  be  hung  all  right." 

Neither  Daffy  nor  her  friend  knew  much  about  painting ; 
and  it  seemed  to  them  that  Tim  had  achieved  a  remarkable 
success.  So  much  so  that  Mrs.  Peronet  became  eager  for 
Tim  to  paint  Daffy.  This  he  refused  to  do,  although  con- 
sent meant  long  hours  alone  with  his  sitter. 

"If  your  novel  is  as  good  as  that !"  Mrs.  Peronet 

left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"You  shall  be  the  judge." 

From  the  first  chapter,  the  book  gripped  them.  He  could 
see  that.  And  he  guessed  that  his  listeners  were  fairly  rep- 
resentative of  the  better  class  of  readers.  But  he  entreated 
them  to  withhold  criticism  till  the  end.  When  that  end  came 
Daffy's  eyes  were  wet,  tribute  most  precious  to  all  authors. 
Mrs.  Peronet  spoke  with  authority : 

"It  has  atmosphere.  I've  never  been  to  California,  but 
I  see  this  ranch.  Set  me  down  in  the  middle  of  it  and  I 
should  know  where  I  was.  Also,  you  have  subordinated 
your  effects  to  your  theme,  no  easy  job,  that!  Your  values 
stand  out  I  call  it  a  fine  piece  of  drawing  for  a  beginner. 
And  your  knowledge  of  painting,  your  sense  of  colour, 
has  helped  you.  As  soon  as  it  is  published  I  shall  despatch 
328 


Fortune  Smiles 

hundreds  of  postcards  to  my  friends  telling  them  that  it  is 
a  book  to  buy." 

"You  are  most  awfully  kind." 

"Daffy  will  do  more,  because  her  friends  are  innumera- 
ble." 

"My  acquaintances,  Alice." 

This  was  pleasant  and  satisfactory,  although  Tim  was 
exacerbated  at  the  time  by  the  fear  that  success,  if  it  were 
indeed  his,  might  be  ephemeral.  To  soar  like  a  rocket,  and 
fall  like  its  stick,  had  been  the  unhappy  lot  of  many  men, 
one-book  men,  one-picture  men.  Into  Dust  he  had  put  him- 
self, his  own  experiences  and  feelings.  His  next  novel  must 
perforce  be  largely  imaginary.  Alice  Peronet  pooh-poohed 
such  apprehensions.  In  common  with  Otis  she  dwelt  upon 
the  importance  of  a  fine  start. 

Meanwhile,  a  letter  had  come  from  Broad,  suggesting  a 
pseudonym,  because  there  happened  to  be  a  well-known 
novelist  of  the  name  of  White.  Tim  discussed  this  at 
some  length  with  the  ladies,  who  knew  that  he  had  been 
both  Green  and  Brown. 

"And  I  felt  Black,"  he  added. 

"But  that  has  passed  ?"  murmured  Daffy. 

"Yes." 

She  said  slowly : 

"Would  Grey  do?" 

Mrs.  Peronet  approved  of  Grey,  so  did  Lasher,  although 
he  pointed  out  that  to  him  there  was  something  comic  in 
these  parti-coloured  changes  of  name.  Tim  admitted  that 
it  was  an  idiosyncrasy,  and  he  was  longing  to  tell  Daffy 
that  he  had  no  right  to  the  Vicar's  patronymic.  The  secret 
of  his  parentage  had  been  withheld  even  from  Magdalena. 

Grey! 

He  pondered  over  the  name  for  forty-eight  hours,  be- 
neath grey  skies,  looking  across  grey  waters.  The  conviction 
came  to  him  that  this  would  be  the  last  name,  and  the  most 
fitting — for  grey,  the  grey  of  the  Breton  landscape,  held  all 
colours  in  its  sober  keeping.  Finally  he  wrote  to  Broad, 

329 


Timothy 

telling  him  that  he  had  chosen  Grey  as  a  nom-de-plume. 
What  more  fitting,  replied  the  eminent  publisher,  than  a 
pseudonym  which  suggested  the  quill  from  the  grey  goose. 
Tim  laughed  at  this  mild  joke  because  Lasher  contended 
that  nearly  all  scribblers  were  geese.  At  the  table  d'hote 
Timothy  Grey  was  toasted.  Tim  said  derisively : 

"A  fitter  name  for  me  would  be  Blanc  d'Espagne." 

He  had  to  interpret  this  quip  to  Alice  Peronet. 

"Blanc  d'Espagne  means  white-wash." 

"Indeed !"  Her  eyes  probed  his  very  heart.  "You  really 
feel  that?" 

He  replied  grimly: 

"Ever  since  you  arrived." 


330 


BOOK  FIVE:    GREY 


BOOK  FIVE:    GREY 


CHAPTER  I 

SPINDRIFT 


DAFFY  and  Tim  did  not  break  new  ground  till  they  had 
traversed  together  the  old  paths  down  which  they  had 
wandered  as  children.  And  Tim  soon  discovered  that  her 
memory  of  those  joyous  days  was  even  more  tenacious  than 
his  own.  She  recalled  the  butterfly-hunting  expeditions  to 
capture  some  rare  fritillary  in  Pennington  High  Wood,  or 
the  brilliant  "Chalk-hill  blue"  to  be  found  on  the  downs  near 
Winchester  amongst  whins  where  the  stonechats  nested. 
They  spent  an  hour  talking  over  a  tremendous  enterprise, 
the  re-levelling  of  a  tennis-court.  Eustace  Pomfret  had 
been  impressed  into  service  with  a  barrow,  which  he  would 
wheel  full  of  earth  along  a  narrow  plank,  invariably  upset- 
ting it.  And  then  Tim  and  Daffy  would  laugh  at  his  serious, 
distressed  face.  Tim  asked  for  news  of  the  old  "Plodder." 
It  appeared  that  he  took  himself  more  seriously  than  ever; 
he  was  in  Orders — so  Tim  learned — and  Vicar  of  a  big 
suburban  parish,  a  celibate. 

"He  couldn't  change  much,"  affirmed  Tim. 

"Do  any  of  us  change — much?" 

"What?" 

She  explained: 

"My  sisters  are  just  the  same.  Annie  married  a  Suffragan 
Bishop ;  she  has  four  children.  Carrie  is  an  old  maid.  They 
repeat  the  same  phrases.  'I  quite  agree'  is  still  Annie's 

333 


Timothy 

cheval  de  bataille.    Carrie  is  sure  that  everything  is  for  the 
best  in  the  best  of  worlds.    And  you  and  I,  Tim " 

She  paused,  smiling  at  him. 

"We  have  changed." 

"We  were  mutineers.    And  we  are  so  to-day." 

"Are  we?" 

"Under  our  skins.  One  learns,  of  course,  to  dissemble. 
Poor  Mother !  Towards  the  close  of  her  life  I  never  argued 
with  her ;  and  I  never  argue  with  Rokeby.  How  inept  this 
forcing  of  one's  opinions  down  other  people's  throats.  They 
then  cease  to  be  one's  own." 

"So,  you  keep  yours  under  lock  and  key." 

"I  shew  them  to  a  very  few  friends." 

"Shew  them  to  me." 

"Presently." 

He  marked  her  reluctance  to  talk  about  herself,  but  grad- 
ually the  routine  of  her  life  was  unrolled.  Hunting  and 
shooting  engrossed  Rokeby  from  October  till  March;  then 
followed  four  months  in  London ;  after  the  season  was  over 
they  went  to  Scotland.  They  entertained  hosts  of  friends 
coming  and  going  in  a  never-ending  procession.  Tim  said 
warmly : 

"Surely  you  loathe  that?" 

"Rokeby  likes  it,"  she  replied  evasively. 

"Sounds  to  me  a  tread-mill." 

"It  is." 

"Poor  Daff !" 

But  she  frowned  slightly  when  he  pitied  her,  changing  the 
subject.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  she 
looked  strong  and  well. 

"Health,"  he  remarked,  "is  a  tremendous  asset.  During 
my  black  phase  I  could  think  of  nothing  else.  My  mind 
poisoned  my  body;  and  exercising  my  body  purged  my 
mind." 

"Hunting  works  that  way  with  me." 

"Long  ago,  I  met  a  fellow  in  San  Francisco.  Sir  Some- 
body Jocelyn " 

334 


Spindrift 

"Harry  Jocelyn?" 

"Yes ;  he  said  that  you  went  like  a  bird." 

"Poor  Harry!  He  has  come  to  sad  grief,  ran  off  with 
another  man's  wife.  They  are  living  at  Dinard,  I  believe. 
He  wanted  to  marry  her,  but  she  couldn't  get  a  divorce." 

"A  dog-in-the-manger  trick !" 

"Many  men  are  like  that.    It  is  rather  a  pitiful  revenge." 

She  sighed.  Tim  tried  quite  in  vain  to  read  her  thoughts, 
wondering  whether  Rokeby  was  a  gentleman  of  the  dog-in- 
the-manger  kidney. 

"I  should  like  to  hunt  again,"  he  observed. 

"One  becomes  a  slave  to  it,"  said  Daffy.  "I  can  assure 
you  that  a  master's  wife  has  no  easy  billet." 

"Then  this  is  a  real  holiday  for  you,  dear." 

"It  is  indeed." 

ii 

He  watched  her  with  children,  Concarneau's  never-failing 
crop.  The  Spring  fishing  was  slightly  better  than  usual, 
alleviating  the  general  distress  brought  about  by  the  sardine 
famine,  but  many  went  hungry.  Alethea  had  loosened  gen- 
erously her  purse-strings,  tightening  those  of  her  heart, 
perhaps,  in  a  not  unnatural  revulsion  against  dirt  and 
squalor.  Daffy — so  Tim  perceived — exhibited  no  such 
shrinkings.  Alethea  would  talk  sentimentally  about  a  pretty, 
clean  baby,  and  on  such  occasions  Tim  would  have  a  vision 
of  her  going  to  some  well-appointed  orphanage  and  picking 
out  the  prettiest  boy  in  it  with  a  view  to  adopting  him,  if  he 
proved  sweet  and  good  and  worthy  (a  favourite  word  of 
Alethea's).  Daffy,  on  the  other  hand,  sought  the  most  for- 
lorn specimens,  protesting  vehemently  against  conditions 
which  according  to  her  view  should  be  wiped  out  of  exist- 
ence by  the  concerted  wealth  and  intelligence  of  the  world. 
She  dealt  with  such  conditions  sanely  and  practically,  calling 
in  the  doctor  if  he  were  needed,  speaking  to  the  local  au- 
thorities and  the  parents,  quite  undaunted  by  difficulties 

335 


Timothy 

which  frightened  Alethea.  Tim  became  gradually  sure  that 
her  most  poignant  regret  was  childlessness,  a  regret  ineffec- 
tually hidden  from  Alice  Peronet,  who  confirmed  Tim's 
diagnosis  of  a  secret  malady.  Daffy,  too,  betrayed  herself 
again  and  again. 

She  said  to  Tim: 

"The  hearth  here  is  everything — le  foyer  Breton.  Souv- 
estre  fails  there  lamentably.  His  stories,  charming  though 
they  are,  arouse  an  expectation  which  is  never  satisfied.  The 
title  is  misleading.  Nobody  has  described  so  admirably  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  province,  but  he  deals  with  the 
rind,  not  the  core.  Le  Braz,  too,  is  more  concerned  with 
legend  and  costume  and  functions  than  with  the  heart  of 
the  people.  Bazin  might  do  it.  Botrel,  in  some  of  his 
simplest  verses,  has  captured  exactly  what  I  mean."  She 
quoted — 

Les  petits  sabots  des  petits  Bretons. 

Petites  Bretonnes, 
Chantent  des  chansons  en  differents  tons, 

Jamais  monotones — Toe,  toe! 
Chers  petits  sabots  des  petits  Bretons 

Trop  tot  Ton  vous  quitte: 
Des  petits  Bretons  les  petits  petons 

Grandissent  trop  vite!     Toe,  toe! 

Many  talks  upon  this  subject  fired  Tim  with  an  eager 
desire  to  begin  another  novel,  dealing  with  Breton  life  and 
character.  Daffy  pointed  out  that,  to  her  mind,  the  supreme 
merit  of  the  first  book  was  due  to  its  sincerity.  It  con- 
vinced the  reader  because  it  dealt  solely  with  experiences 
through  which  the  writer  had  passed.  Daffy  was  sure  that 
Tim  ought  to  continue  upon  the  same  simple  lines.  Every 
word  she  uttered  became  suggestive,  and  in  speaking  of 
women  and  children  she,  quite  unconsciously,  furnished 
him  with  information  and  experience  which  he,  as  uncon- 
sciously, assimilated  and  garnered.  She  was  never  happier 
or  more  intelligent  than  when  discussing  with  him  what  a 

336 


Spindrift 

woman  would  or  would  not  do,  given  certain  conditions.  In 
dealing  with  men,  Tim  needed  no  assistance. 

Finally,  he  selected  a  theme  entirely  Breton.  The  story 
dealt  with  peasants  and  fisherfolk,  types  sharply  contrasted, 
for  the  peasant  is  slow-witted,  cautious  and  thrifty,  whereas 
the  fisherman  is  his  antithesis,  intelligent,  reckless  and  a 
spendthrift  of  earnings  which  may  be  large  "quand  la  sar- 
dine donne."  Together  Daffy  and  Tim  wandered  into  the 
farmyards  and  homesteads,  into  the  huts  of  the  sabotiers, 
into  the  grey  houses  of  the  fishermen.  Out  of  the  mouths  of 
little  children  flowed  innumerable  answers  to  their  questions, 
for  the  parents  are  exasperatingly  reserved,  eyeing  with 
suspicion  the  strangers  who  wander  through  the  province. 

''This  will  be  a  big  book,"  predicted  Daffy. 

And  if  it  were  Tim  decided  that  he  would  owe  his  in- 
spiration to  her,  his  dear  old  friend,  and  that  when  she 
left  him  the  fountain  would  be  sealed.  He  began  to  count 
the  days  that  remained ;  he  began  to  envisage  himself  alone ; 
he  began,  alas !  to  envisage  himself  and  her  together,  never 
to  be  parted  except  by  death. 

No  woman,  he  reflected  sadly,  had  appealed  to  him  as 
Daffy  did.  She  seemed  to  have  been  created  to  satisfy  every 
side  of  him,  the  physical,  the  mental,  and  the  spiritual.  Com- 
parisons between  her  and  Magdalena  were  impossible.  The 
fact  that  he  had  loved  his  wife  so  tenderly  and  so  faithfully 
enabled  him  to  grasp  what  love  in  its  supreme  fulness  might 
mean.  He  could  give  to  Daffy  all  that  had  been  given  to 
Magdalena — and  how  much  more  ?  And  always  the  thought 
consumed  him :  From  the  first  she  was  mine ! 


in 

They  made  an  expedition  to  the  Pointe  du  Raz,  passing 
through  the  country  of  the  Bigoudens,  the  wildest  part  of 
the  province,  where  the  women  descendants  of  Phoenicians 
remain  oriental  to  this  day. 

337 


Timothy 

When  they  reached  the  Pointe,  a  gale  happened  to  be 
blowing.  Huge  waves  were  breaking  upon  the  granite 
rocks ;  thundering  surges  rolled  in  from  the  Atlantic.  To  the 
right  lay  the  terrible  Bay  des  Trepasses.  The  man  who 
serves  as  guide  to  tourists  warned  Tim  that  the  wind  upon 
the  headland  would  be  furious.  Tim,  however,  knew  well 
the  narrow  track  which  overhangs  the  caldron  of  turbulent 
waters,  and  Daffy  assured  him  that  her  nerves  were  to  be 
relied  on.  She,  indeed,  urged  upon  him  her  desire  to  stand 
upon  the  most  westerly  point  of  France,  and  to  behold  the 
glorious  spectacle  of  wind  and  waves  in  wildest  conflict. 
And,  truly,  there  is  no  more  awful  and  sublime  phenomenon 
in  the  world  than  this  duel  a  outrance  which  rages  but  rarely, 
and  in  its  most  tremendous  fury  only  when  the  Spring  tides 
are  at  their  height,  and  running  against  a  sou-westerly  gale. 

"You  are  not  afraid?"  said  Tim. 

"Do  I  look  so?"  she  asked. 

He  gazed  at  her  keenly.  Her  black  serge  skirt  and  jacket, 
closely  fitting,  accentuated  the  fine  lines  of  her  form  and 
the  fair  colouring  of  a  face  glowing  beneath  the  lashing 
wind.  Her  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement. 

"Follow  me,"  said  Tim. 

He  moved  cautiously  along  the  slippery  face  of  the  cliff, 
instructing  Daffy  to  tread  carefully  in  his  steps.  For  a 
few  minutes  they  were  comparatively  sheltered  from  the 
blast,  but  the  roar  of  the  breakers  upon  the  rocks  below  was 
punctuated  by  shrill  whistlings  and  wailings,  as  if  some 
vast  monster  were  in  anguish. 

"I  have  never  known  it  like  this,"  said  Tim. 

He  had  to  shout  at  her.    She  nodded,  smilingly. 

"We're  in  big  luck,"  Tim  added. 

They  reached  a  corner,  the  last  sheltering  place. 

"I'll  reconnoitre,"  said  Tim. 

He  left  her  in  the  shelter.     By  this  time  there  was  no 

doubt  either  in  his  mind  or  hers  that  the  warnings  of  the 

guide  had  been  justified.    Their  adventure  was  fraught  with 

grave  peril.    As  Tim  rounded  the  corner,  the  gale  seemed 

338 


Spindrift 


to  strike  him.  He  staggered  back  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 
Then,  securing  his  foothold,  he  turned  a  reassuring  glance 
at  Daffy,  at  the  moment  when  she  was  least  prepared  to 
meet  it.  For  an  instant  she  thought  that  Tim  would  be 
dashed  into  the  gulf  below.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her 
that  he  would  look  back. 

What  he  saw  drove  him  mad  with  exultation.  He  faced 
the  gale,  knowing  that  she  loved  him.  The  question,  so 
insistent  of  late,  was  answered.  Her  friendship  had  never 
been  in  doubt,  but  had  it  cooled  the  old  love?  Was  she 
tormented  by  the  pangs  which  assailed  him,  whenever  he 
thought  of  what  might  have  been? 

Her  face  revealed  everything  she  had  suppressed  so 
valiantly.  It  was  piteous  with  anxiety,  twisted  by  misery. 
He  divined  that  had  he  slipped  and  fallen  she  would  have 
perished  with  him,  leaping  after  him.  Yes ;  she  was  capa- 
ble of  that. 

He  crawled  on  till  he  reached  the  vantage  point,  whence 
the  scene  below  might  be  watched  in  all  its  immense 
splendour  and  majesty.  To  stand  there  with  Daffy  seemed 
to  him  to  be  the  greatest  moment  of  his  life.  If  they  were 
dashed  to  destruction,  what  of  it?  He  recked  nothing  of 
such  a  death  nor  would  she.  The  tumult  in  their  hearts 
matched  the  tumult  of  the  elements. 

He  returned  to  her.  She  wondered  whether  he  knew. 
His  face  was  as  impassive  as  hers.  He  was  obliged  to  put 
his  mouth  to  her  ear. 

"It's  hardly  safe,"  he  whispered. 

"I'll  risk  it  with  you,"  she  answered  confidently. 

He  smiled.  The  risk  which  beguiled  him  presented  itself 
as  enchantingly  to  her.  To  share  a  common  danger — can 
love  demand  a  finer  test? 

"I'll  go  first.  Grip  my  coat  with  both  hands.  Slowly 
does  it." 

She  obeyed  breathlessly;  he  heard  a  sigh  of  satisfaction 
as  she  grasped  his  coat. 

339 


Timothy 

Then  step  by  step,  they  ascended  the  cliff,  drenched  by 
the  spray  from  the  waves. 


IV 

When  they  had  crawled  in  safety  to  the  uttermost  point, 
Tim  placed  Daffy  between  himself  and  the  precipice,  so  that 
she  was  sheltered  by  his  body  and  a  great  rock.  Upon  this 
spot,  soon  afterwards,  the  divine  Sarah  stood  alone,  when 
a  tempest  was  raging,  and  watched  the  waters.  Nothing 
could  be  imagined  more  likely  to  "expand  the  spirit  and 
appal"  than  such  a  scene.  The  high  Alps,  inaccessible  at 
such  a  moment,  might,  as  Byron  suggested,  excite  similar 
emotions,  but  one  conceives  that  a  man  at  the  top  of  the 
Matterhorn  when  a  ninety-mile-an-hour  gale  is  blowing 
would  be  engrossed  by  the  certainty  of  immediate  death. 
The  sun  blazed  out  between  inky  clouds.  The  ocean  was  a 
pale,  lurid  grey  where  the  sun  shone  upon  it ;  the  clouds  cast 
deep  indigo  shadows.  The  line  of  battle  where  wind  met 
tide  was  a  wall  of  foam  with  streamers  of  spindrift  whirling 
upwards.  From  the  hollows  of  the  cliffs  below  rumbled  a 
deep  diapason  note,  dominating  the  other  sounds — the 
shrieking  of  the  blast,  the  crashing  of  the  breakers,  and  the 
swish  of  the  spray. 

Daffy  and  Tim  gazed  in  fascination.  Nature  seemed  to  be 
groaning  and  travailing  beneath  the  pangs  of  some  tremen- 
dous birth.  Across  the  northeasterly  horizon  stretched  a 
double  rainbow.  Every  colour  and  every  gfadation  of 
colour  might  be  found  in  either  sky  or  sea. 

Presently  Tim's  thoughts  turned  inwards.  He  beheld  with 
clearest  vision  past  storms  and  tumults  which  had  swept 
him  hither  and  thither  like  the  spindrift  upon  the  ocean, 
or  a  bird  struggling  to  fly  against  the  wind,  and  suddenly 
whirled  in  the  opposite  direction.  Often  he  had  envied 
men  who  seemed  to  forget  dark  and  bitter  hours,  whose 
memories  lingered  in  the  sunshine,  tasting  and  retasting 
some  small  triumph,  chewing  the  cud  of  it  forever  and  ever. 
340 


Spindrift 

What  an  attribute,  making  for  peace  and  happiness,  this 
complacent,  indolent  self-glorification!  It  had  never  been 
his  lucky  lot  thus  to  forget  pain  and  to  gloat  over  past 
pleasure. 

A  revulsion  of  passion  gripped  and  shook  him.  He  stood 
by  his  wife's  grave,  seeing  her  dear  body  lowered  into  the 
earth,  soon  to  be  transmuted  into  corruption  and  dust. 
What  a  terrifying,  agonising  moment  that  had  been.  After- 
wards he  had  loathed  the  idea — so  sweet  to  many — of  revis- 
iting her  grave.  He  could  conceive  of  her  anywhere  except 
in  that  narrow,  abominable  box !  Amongst  his  papers  in  a 
despatch  box  were  instructions  that  his  own  body  should 
be  cremated,  and  that  the  ashes  should  be  flung  to  the  cleans- 
ing winds  and  waters. 

He  turned  his  face  and  met  Daffy's  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  seeing  the  torment  and  misery 
in  his  heart. 

He  did  not  answer. 

There  is  no  such  appeal  to  women  as  this,  the  weakness 
of  a  strong  man,  far  more  irresistible  than  his  strength, 
which  evokes  that  poignant  pity  which  is  indeed  akin  to  love. 
Daffy's  ministering  hands  sought  his.  All  the  sympathy 
which  at  such  moments  can  flow  from  a  noble  woman 
flowed  in  fullest  measure  to  this  stricken  friend.  But  she, 
also,  said  not  a  word,  as  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 
Tim  gripped  her  hands. 

She  trembled,  averting  her  eyes. 

He  saw  his  advantage,  but  did  not  press  it,  wondering 
afterwards  what  power  had  restrained  him  in  that  wild 
minute  when  the  tempest  within  and  without  blew  from 
each  the  last  rags  of  restraint.  The  crisis  passed  as  the 
wind  seemed  to  increase  in  volume.  Every  second  spent 
upon  this  exposed  spot  endangered  Daffy's  life. 

"We  must  go  back,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 

She  nodded. 

"You  go  first,"  he  enjoined.    "I'll  hold  you." 

It  was  impossible  to  walk  upright.  They  had  to  crawl  to 

341 


Timothy 

safety  upon  the  narrow  path,  advancing  inch  by  inch.  When 
the  last  perilous  corner  was  turned,  Tim  asked  one  question, 
pointing  to  the  gulf  below 

"If  we  had  gone  over,  would  you  have  cared  much?" 

"I  was  not  afraid  of  that,"  she  answered  gravely. 

Yet  he  had  seen  fear  in  her  eyes,  fear  of  him  and  of 
herself. 

"I'm  glad  we  did  it,"  he  replied. 


Next  day,  another  excursion  was  made  to  an  ancient 
manor  house,  once  a  small  feudal  castle,  which  lies  upon 
the  banks  of  a  river  sheltered  by  fine  trees.  The  man  in 
charge  informed  Tim  that  the  property,  not  a  large  one, 
was  for  sale  and  mentioned  a  modest  price.  This  fact  quick- 
ened the  interest  of  the  visitors,  for  the  house  and  grounds 
were  charming.  Otis  began  a  sketch ;  Mrs.  Peronet  sat  near 
him,  reading;  Tim  and  Daffy  explored  the  garden,  which 
revealed  unexpected  beauties.  Huge  rocks  covered  with 
moss  lay  amidst  hoary  oaks  now  bursting  into  full  leaf. 
The  storm  of  the  previous  day  had  exhausted  itself.  A 
breeze  sighed  softly  in  the  pines  which  fringed  the  higher 
grounds.  Wild  flowers  carpeted  the  glades.  The  river  could 
be  seen  below,  a  silvery  riband  winding  towards  the  sea. 
The  seclusion  was  absolute.  And  about  the  gnarled  oaks 
and  rocks  lingered  mystery.  One  could  conceive  of  Druidi- 
cal  rites  in  such  a  spot.  It  was  haunted  by  some  elusive 
spirit  of  the  past.  Two  peasants,  a  fisherman  and  a  girl, 
passed  Tim  and  Daffy.  They  walked  side  by  side,  with  fin- 
jars  interlaced,  lovers,  with  a  brooding  expression  upon 
their  brown,  impassive  faces.  The  girl  wore  the  pretty  cos- 
tume of  Pont-Aven ;  the  man  was  in  faded  overalls  with  a 
blue  beret  jauntily  aslant  upon  his  head.  Tim  watched  them 
enviously. 

The  shadows  swallowed  them  up.  Soon  they  would 
342 


Spindrift 

emerge  upon  a  stretch  of  down  dotted  by  gorse  bushes 
blazing  yellow  in  the  sun.  Then,  perhaps,  they  would  stand 
and  talk  of  what  the  future  might  hold,  of  the  house  wherein 
their  children  would  be  born,  of  the  boat  yet  to  be  built, 
of  the  garden  to  be  planted  and  tended. 

Tim  and  Daffy  wandered  on.  The  small  domain  formed 
a  peninsula,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  the  river  which 
separated  it  from  a  fishing  hamlet  upon  the  farther  shore. 

"What  a  place,"  said  Tim.  "I  could  buy  it,  if  I  chose. 
That's  a  wonderful  thought." 

He  began  to  talk  of  what  he  could  do  in  such  an  earthly 
paradise,  sheltered  even  from  the  winds  of  the  Atlantic. 
There  was  a  terrace,  with  a  stone  balustrade,  running  along 
the  fagade  which  faced  the  river,  and  in  front  a  cour  d'hon- 
neur,  a  miniature  affair,  but  the  real  thing,  once  thronged 
with  cavaliers  and  gay  ladies  going  a-hawking.  In  the  cen- 
tre was  an  ancient  well  with  a  superb  stone  top,  grotesquely 
carved.  And,  inside  the  chateau,  were  two  immense  stone- 
vaulted  rooms.  What  a  delight  to  fill  them  with  old  Breton 
furniture  and  faience,  to  panel  the  walls  with  sides  of  chests 
bought  here  and  -there  out  of  the  farmhouses !  Had  Daffy 
noticed  the  immense  open  hearth?  Wouldn't  it  be  jolly  to 
sit  in  front  of  roaring  logs  when  the  winds  blew  and  one 
could  hear  the  roar  of  the  breakers. 

As  he  talked,  his  face  flushed;  his  eyes  sparkled.  Daffy 
beheld  again  the  ingenuous  youth  of  Little  Pennington ;  she 
heard  his  mirthful  laugh  which  had  so  captivated  her  long 
ago.  Suddenly  he  stopped. 

"But  you  would  be  bored  ?" 

"No,  no.     Go  on!     To  listen  to  you  is  like  hearing  a 
-dream  transposed  into  words." 

The  years  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  her ;  she  spoke  and 
looked  as  the  Daffy  who  had  sat  with  him  in  the  Dell,  prat- 
tling of  a  future  to  be  passed  with  him.  Tim  said,  abruptly : 

"The  dream  might  come  true." 

Silently,  she  shook  her  head.  He  burst  out  with  startling 
vehemence : 

343 


Timothy 


"Why  not?    Nothing  is  needed  but  courage." 

She  lifted  her  hands  with  an  imploring  gesture.  Tim 
seized  her,  drawing  her  towards  him,  gazing  into  her  face, 
trying  to  interpret  the  expression  of  eyes  which  eluded 
his. 

"Courage  to  flout  convention,  to  seize  opportunity,  to 
remake  our  lives — to — to  begin  again." 

"Tim !    You  hurt  me !" 

He  released  her,  but  he  went  on : 

"Ah !  You  are  afraid.  To  give  up  what  you  have — it  is 
too  much  to  ask  of  any  woman." 

Nettled  by  the  irony  in  his  voice,  she  retorted  quickly : 

"Rank  is  nothing  to  me — nothing.  And  I  am  rich  enough 
in  my  own  right.  How  dare  you  misunderstand  me  ?" 

He  smiled;  she  was  angry,  the  dear  creature;  therefore 
she  loved  him.  Otherwise  she  would  have  laughed. 

"Daffy,  what  stands  between  us  and  the  happiness  which 
we  could  give  each  other?" 

"I  cannot  answer  you,  Tim." 

"You  mean  you  won't." 

"The  question  will  be  answered,  but  not  by  me." 

She  spoke  with  a  restraint  that  imposed  itself  subtly 
upon  his  quick  intelligence. 

"Can  I  answer  it?" 

"Only  you.     But  not  here  or  now." 

"Then— when?    And  where?" 

She  drew  herself  up,  standing  erect  before  him,  faintly 
smiling.  Her  dignity  confounded  him,  for  love  glowed  in 
her  eyes. 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  entreated  silence  with  a 
gesture,  continuing  softly:  "I  have  never  doubted  your 
love  for  me,  not  even  in  that  dreary  bitter  hour  when  I 
learned  from  my  mother  why  you  had  left  England." 

"You  are  wonderful." 

"I  think  women  who  love  truly  are  like  that.    We  were 
very  young,  little  more  than  children,  but  age  has  nothing 
to  do  with  love.    I  shall  love  you  when  I  am  old,  Tim." 
344 


Spindrift 

"If  you  feel  that,  come  to  me." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  the  world's  censure.  I  could  sacri- 
fice my  good  name  for  your  sake,  but  if  I  came  to  you — now, 
you,  not  I,  would  be  leaping  into  the  dark,  into  shadows." 

"But  this  is  mystery." 

"It  is  indeed,  because  the  mystery  lies  thick  upon  you, 
not  me.  I  cannot  see  you  clearly  yet.  I  can  see  the  boy,  not 
the  man.  An  ordeal  lies  before  you,  an  experience  through 
which  you  must  pass.  When  it  is  over,  when  your  eyes  are 
opened,  come  back  to  me.  I  make  no  pledges,  but  what  is 
best  in  me,  which  recognises  what  is  best  in  you,  dares  me 
to  put  you  to  the  proof.  If  you  should  fail,  if  you  should 
not  rise  to  your  full  stature,  to  the  manhood  which  I  have 
prayed  might  be  yours,  why  then,  Tim,  I  might  do  what  you 
ask,  for  God  knows  that  your  need  of  me  would  be  tre- 
mendous." 

"What  is  this  ordeal?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  Little  Pennington,  to  see  your 
father." 

"But  why?" 

"He  will  answer  that  question  in  his  own  way  and  at  his 
own  time.  Will  you  go  ?" 

"Yes,  but  I  shall  come  back  to  you." 


345 


CHAPTER  II 

JACK 


TIM  left  Concarneau  some  two  days  later.  Upon  the 
very  eve  of  his  departure  arrived  the  draft  from  Cali- 
fornia. He  shewed  it  triumphantly  to  Otis,  who  entreated 
him  to  invest  it  in  gilt-edged  securities.  Tim  mentioned  the 
ancient  chateau,  but  Otis  ridiculed  such  a  bargain. 

"Cost  you  a  small  fortune  to  do  it  up,"  he  remarked. 

"That's  where  the  fun  would  come  in." 

"But,  hang  it!  you  couldn't  live  there  alone.' 

To  this  Tim  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

Daffy  and  Mrs.  Peronet  left  Concarneau  with  Tim,  but 
he  parted  from  them  at  Quimper,  where  the  ladies  were 
passing  the  night.  Apart  from  his  promise  to  Daffy,  he 
wished  to  arrive  in  London  upon  the  day  when  Dust  was 
published.  And  he  wished,  also,  to  travel  through  Paris,  for 
the  portrait  of  Alethea  had  passed  the  jury  (thanks  to  Cab- 
ral's  influence)  and  was  already  hung.  Tim,  however,  had 
lost  interest  in  it.  Nevertheless,  such  a  small  triumph 
counted.  In  Paris,  he  saw  his  picture,  high  above  the  line, 
and  spent  a  joyous  evening  with  Briand  and  Cabral.  Cer- 
tainly the  luck  had  changed.  Cabral  said  emphatically : 

"Tu  as  de  la  veine,  toi !" 

He  arrived  in  London  upon  the  28th  of  April,  refusing  to 
wait  for  the  opening  of  the  Salon.  He  put  up  at  the  Cecil 
Hotel,  dined  well,  and  went  to  the  play.  At  eleven,  the  next 
morning,  he  called  upon  Broad,  who  shewed  him  his  literary 
first-born,  swathed  in  blue,  a  promising-looking  infant.  He 
346 


Jack 

told  the  publisher  that  a  Breton  novel  was  on  the  stocks,  and 
Broad  expressed  a  wish  to  publish  it. 

Thanks  to  his  influence  with  the  powerful  editor  of  a 
morning  paper,  a  review  of  the  novel  appeared  upon  the 
day  of  publication.  Tim  read  the  following : 

We  welcome  warmly  a  sincere  piece  of  work  from  the 
pen  of  a  new  writer,  entitled  Dust.  Most  assuredly 
it  has  penetrating  qualities ;  and  we  confess  that  it  af- 
fected eyes  which  we  believed  to  be  dust-proof.  Mr. 
Grey  is  to  be  congratulated  upon  a  notable  achievement. 
He  transports  us  to  California,  to  a  foothill  ranch  upon 
which  he  must  have  lived  and  loved  and  suffered.  It  is 
quite  impossible  to  treat  this  novel  as  mere  fiction.  We 
venture  to  affirm  it  to  be  autobiographical,  a  faithful 
record  of  life  in  a  land  of  sunshine  during  an  extended 
period  of  drought.  With  practice  Mr.  Grey  may  learn 
to  write  with  greater  ease  and  distinction;  he  may  ac- 
quire the  tricks  and  cliches  of  his  trade  happily  absent 
from  the  present  narrative;  he  may  become — we  warn 
him  of  this  in  all  good  faith — a  popular  caterer  to  a 
large  public;  for  we  find  in  this  first  book  possibilities 
adumbrating  alike  triumph  and  disaster.  We  do  not 
know  Mr.  Grey  personally,  but  we  see  clearly  in  the 
author  of  Dust  two  personalities,  the  artist,  with  a  de- 
lightful appreciation  of  the  rhythm  and  colour  of  life, 
with  a  trained  or  innate  recognition  of  "values,"  and, 
sharply  contrasted,  the  man  of  business  too  concerned 
with  dramatic  incident,  too  heedless  of  psychology.  If 
Mr.  Grey  achieves  success,  which  of  these  two  person- 
alities will  become  the  dominant  partner?  It  has  been 
said  that  business  *  instinct  underlies  artistic  triumphs, 
but  we  are  unconvinced  of  this.  We  cling  to  the  belief 
that  the  best  work  is  accomplished  by  those  who  are 
concerned  altogether  with  that  work,  concentrating  un- 
divided energies  upon  it,  with  no  eye  lifted  to  behold 
the  effect  on  others,  with  no  ear  cocked  for  the  applause 
of  the  groundlings,  with  no  hand  open  to  clutch  the 
largesse  of  Fortune.  We  advise  our  readers  to  buy  Dust, 
to  read  it  carefully,  and  to  re-read  it. 

347 


Timothy 

"That's  rather  jolly,  isn't  it?"  said  Tim,  looking  straight 
at  Broad,  who  was  lying  back  in  a  comfortable  chair.  He 
liked  Broad,  because  the  great  man  had  not  kept  him  cool- 
ing his  heels  in  a  fusty  waiting-room.  Lasher  cursed  that 
detestable  cooling  process  and  the  complacent  arrogance  of 
rich  publishers  who  enthroned  themselves  high  above  im- 
poverished poets.  Broad,  however,  belonged  to  the  old- 
fashioned  school.  He  was  editor  of  a  literary  magazine, 
and  agreeably  saturated  with  its  traditions ;  he  wore  grace- 
fully the  mantle  of  an  illustrious  predecessor;  his  manner 
would  have  disarmed  a  nervous  school-girl.  And  the  room 
in  which  he  received  his  authors  was  historical,  a  fine,  lofty, 
Georgian  chamber,  thickly  carpeted,  lined  with  books  in 
glazed  mahogany  cases. 

"It's  handsome,"  said  Broad.     He  went  on  comfortably : 

"It  will  sell  many  copies.  The  advance  sales,  of  course, 
have  been  negligible,  but  the  orders  will  come  in.  Oh,  yes, 
they  will  come  in.  A  good  slating,  a  long  column  of  abuse 
would  be  a  capital  'ad.'  Prepare  yourself  for  that,  Mr. 
White." 

"I'm  not  thin-skinned,"  said  Tim  cheerfully.  "A  portrait 
I  have  done  is  hung  fairly  well  in  the  Salon.  The  critics 
will  slate  that.  I  don't  mind." 

He  laughed,  throwing  back  his  head.  Broad  laughed  with 
him,  although  he  said  seriously : 

"You  paint  as  well?" 

"I've  chucked  painting.  That  was  pot-boiling.  This 
isn't,  thank  the  Lord !" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  A  portrait  in  the  Salon ! 
You  are  a  fortunate  young  man." 

"Young?    Oh,  no." 

"Not  much  more  than  thirty,  I  take  it?" 

"Nearly  thirty-six." 

"Well,  you  don't  look  it.  Can  you  do  as  your  reviewer 
suggests — give  undivided  energies  to  literary  work?" 

"Yes ;  I  have  independent  means,  enough  for  my  modest 
wants." 

348 


Jack 

"That's  quite  as  it  should  be.  Let  me  add  this  without 
prejudice.  Dust  deals  with  California,  and  the  book  you 
have  on  the  blacks  concerns  itself,  so  you  say,  with  Brittany. 
But,  if  you  wish  to  make  a  supreme  appeal  to  our  public, 
you  must  write  about  England  and  the  English.  There  are 
notable  exceptions  to  this  general  rule,  but  my  advice  you 
will  find  is  sound.  Will  you  dine  with  me  ?" 

"I  am  leaving  London  to-morrow  morning." 

"Come  to-night." 

"You  are  very  kind." 

Broad  named  a  famous  club.  Tim  left  his  office,  con- 
scious of  a  thrilling  sense  of  elation.  The  draft  from  Cali- 
fornia lay  snug  in  his  pocket-book ;  his  picture  hung  in  the 
Salon;  his  book  was  on  the  eve  of  publication;  and  Daffy 
loved  him. 

But  why  had  she  imposed  this  ordeal,  and  what  was  its 
nature?  Never  had  he  been  so  completely  mystified.  Two 
thoughts  obsessed  him :  the  knowledge  that  she  loved  him, 
and  her  conviction  that  some  strange  experience  through 
which  he  must  pass  would  keep  them  apart  instead  of  bring- 
ing them  together.  Crossing  from  Saint  Malo  he  had  en- 
deavoured to  analyse  her  mind  and  his  own.  Did  she  believe 
that  the  influences  of  the  happy  village  would  prevail  against 
an  all-consuming  passion?  Surely  she  was  too  clever,  too 
experienced,  and  too  ardent  to  weave  ropes  out  of  such 
sand  ?  And  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  any  reluctance  he 
might  have  felt  in  tempting  her  to  leave  her  husband  was 
dispelled  by  the  knowledge  that  her  married  life  had  been 
cruelly  disappointing  and  unhappy.  Avidly,  he  swallowed 
details  from  Alice  Peronet.  Rokeby  was  unfaithful,  an 
animal,  and  unkind.  Practically,  husband  and  wife  lived 
apart.  Everybody  knew  it.  Tim  could  envisage  himself 
as  Perseus.  And  he  had  a  notion  that  the  widowed  sage  so 
regarded  him.  Certainly  she  was  no  stickler  for  convention, 
no  upholder  of  outworn  creeds  and  frayed  formulas. 
Nevertheless,  she  dwelt  too  insistently  upon  Daffy's  good- 

349 


Timothy 


ness  and  nobility  of  character,  and  her  farewell  to  Tim  had 
been  significant. 

"Au  revoir,  mon  preux  chevalier." 

Why  did  she  call  him  a  preux  chevalier  ?  Was  she  ironic  ? 
Or,  more  consoling  reflection,  did  she  acclaim  him  as  Per- 
seus? 

In  this  befogged  condition  of  mind,  he  approached  Little 
Pennington,  walking  across  the  Downs  from  Winchester, 
sending  on  his  portmanteau  in  a  fly. 


ii 

The  Vicar  was  expecting  him,  but  Tim  had  not  men- 
tioned a  particular  train,  having  a  reasonable  fear  that  he 
might  be  met  at  the  station.  Fancy  urged  him  to  walk  into 
the  Vicarage  and  hang  his  cap  upon  the  old  peg.  The  Vicar 
would  come  out  of  his  study,  holding  out  both  hands  with 
the  familiar  smile  and  gesture  which  Tim  remembered  so 
well.  Thus  the  ice  would  be  broken ;  and  they  would  slide 
at  once  into  an  easy  intimacy. 

When  Tim  came  to  the  point  whence  the  spire  of  Little 
Pennington  church  may  be  first  seen  he  halted,  gazing  about 
him.  He  perceived  no  changes.  The  yews  looked  smaller, 
a  pond  by  the  road,  where  some  sheep  were  watering,  ap- 
peared to  have  shrunk.  In  fine,  the  landscape,  as  a  whole, 
presented  the  features  of  a  delicate  miniature  rather  than 
a  picture. 

"I  am  bigger,"  thought  Tim. 

He  sat  upon  a  gate,  filling  his  pipe,  staring  about  him  with 
a  faintly  ironical  smile.  Presently,  he  made  a  grimace, 
shrugging  his  broad  shoulders.  What  effect  would  the  shat- 
tering of  the  Seventh  Commandment  exercise  upon  the 
Vicar?  This  question  worried  Tim;  but  he  consoled  him- 
self with  the  reflection  that  Rokeby  would  divorce  his  wife, 
and  that  marriage  would  adjust  the  situation  in  the  kinder 
eyes  of  age  and  wisdom.  With  advancing  years,  the  Vicar, 
350 


Jack 

surely,  had  discarded  some  too  rigid  and  exacting  conven- 
tions. But  had  he?  In  an  odd  way,  the  familiar  surround- 
ings raised  this  question.  The  neatly  trimmed  fences,  the 
carefully  cultivated  fields,  even  the  smug  appearance  of  the 
sheep,  and,  above  all,  the  slender  spire,  indicated  the  ab- 
sence of  change.  He  had  changed.  Little  Pennington  re- 
mained the  same. 

Tim  smoked  his  pipe  too  fast  with  scant  enjoyment.  The 
spirit  of  his  old  home  entered  once  more  into  possession. 

He  felt — what  ?  Afraid  ?  Why  did  he  shrink  from  taking 
the  last  few  steps  which  lay  between  him  and  the  Vicar? 
Why  did  the  desire  to  turn  tail  afflict  him? 

"I'll  fight  this  out,"  he  thought. 

It  was  a  matter  of  pride  that  he  could  face  facts,  and 
deal  with  them  masterfully.  The  moment  had  come  to 
which  he  had  looked  forward.  He,  the  outcast,  was  return- 
ing, as  he  had  wished  to  return,  a  self-supporting,  independ- 
ent man.  After  a  weary  quest,  he  had  found  himself.  He 
knew — rare  accomplishment ! — what  he  wanted.  Would  he 
exchange  positions  with  some  magnate  of  the  India  Civil 
Service?  Did  he  envy,  as  he  had  done,  some  many-acred 
squire  sitting  serene  in  ancestral  halls  ?  Such  boyish  ambi- 
tions had  passed.  He  could  wonder  at  the  fatuity  which 
entertained  them.  What  a  dire  punishment  it  would  be  if 
men  were  constrained  by  Fate  to  dwell  in  the  castles  built 
by  youthful  Fancy !  From  the  consideration  and  enumera- 
tion of  his  assets — high  health,  a  moderate  fortune,  a  rea- 
sonable anticipation  of  fame,  and  the  love  of  a  dear  woman 
— Tim  turned  to  compute  his  disabilities.  What  he  had 
done  would  be  esteemed  by  the  Vicar  of  no  account,  a  tale 
of  talents  wilfully  hidden,  if  he  broke  a  Divine  Law. 

This  was  the  ordeal  which  Daffy  had  adumbrated  so  mys- 
teriously. She  had  foreseen  the  necessity  of  his  meeting  the 
Vicar  and  accepting  his  hand  in  love  and  friendship,  holding 
out  in  return  a  hand  about  to  impose  a  blow.  Nevertheless, 
this  solution  of  a  perplexing  problem  was  too  obvious.  There 
must  be  some  factor  as  yet  unperceived.  Why  had  she  im- 

351 


Timothy 

posed  this  meeting?  Resentment  kindled,  as  he  realised  the 
falseness  of  his  position,  the  hypocrisies  that  it  must 
impose. 

"Shall  I  go  back  ?"  he  muttered. 

He  wriggled  uneasily,  as  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe,  staring  at  them,  sensible  that  every  action,  however 
negligible,  had  definite  meaning  upon  this  eventful  day. 
Were  his  triumphs  turning  into  ashes? 

If  he  went  back  without  meeting  the  Vicar,  what  would 
Daffy  say?  Would  he  shrink  in  her  faithful  eyes  to  mean 
proportions  ? 

Yes;  that  was  inevitable.  Out  of  pity,  she  might  take 
what  was  left  of  a  man;  and  the  memory  of  his  cowardice 
would  poison  happiness. 

He  must  accomplish  the  odious  task  which  she  had  im- 
posed. 

in 

He  passed  some  children,  carrying  garlands.  A  little  girl 
shyly  offered  a  nosegay  of  cowslips.  Tim  said : 

"Thank  you  very  much.    What  is  your  name,  my  dear?" 

"I  be  Daisy  Judd." 

Two  more  questions  revealed  that  she  was  the  daughter 
of  Journey.  To  her  astonishment,  Tim  picked  up  the  maid 
and  kissed  her.  When  he  set  her  down  he  slipped  half  a 
sovereign  into  her  fat  little  hand. 

"Can  you  give  your  father  a  message  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"Tell  him  that  his  old  friend,  Mr.  Tim,  is  coming  to  see 
him.  Can  you  remember  that?" 

She  replied  triumphantly : 

"I  can  say  the  names  of  the  kings  of  Israel." 

"Where  do  you  live,  Daisy?" 

She  told  him.  scampering  off  to  join  the  others.  Tim 
thought  of  the  Cherub,  as  he  passed  through  the  Lych-gate, 
and  entered  the  churchyard.  His  eyes  rested  upon  a  new 
352 


Jack 

white  marble  cross,  conspicuous  for  its  size.  He  read  the 
inscription  upon  it.  This  was  the  grave  of  Daffy's  mother. 
The  cross  had  been  erected  by  Annie,  the  wife  of  the  suf- 
fragan bishop.  He  read  a  text — 

Her  children  shall  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed! 

Tim  lingered  by  the  grave,  uncovering  his  head.  Then 
he  moved  on  to  the  grim  mausoleum  which  held  the  bones 
of  the  departed  Penningtons.  Hard  by  was  the  tomb  of 
the  poet  and  prophet.  Upon  it  lay  two  wreaths.  Tim  stood 
beside  it  listening  to  the  cawing  of  the  rooks,  inhaling  the 
odours  of  Spring,  ,the  mingled  fragrance  of  flowers  and 
herbs.  From  the  forge  across  the  village  street  came  the 
sharp  clang  of  hammer  upon  anvil ;  hens  were  clucking  in 
the  gardens  behind  the  cottages;  blackbirds  were  chatter- 
ing in  the  Vicarage  shrubbery. 

The  door  of  the  church  stood  open.  Tim  looked  in.  An 
old  woman  was  kneeling  near  the  font  at  which,  doubtless, 
she  had  been  baptised.  Her  pale,  withered  face  seemed  ex- 
traordinarily peaceful.  With  a  shock  Tim  recognised  her 
as  the  wife  of  one  of  the  lodge-keepers,  whom  he  had  left 
a  comely  woman  of  fifty.  Nothing  could  have  served  to 
emphasise  more  poignantly  the  flight  of  years  than  this 
great  change  in  a  person  once  full  of  energy  and  strength, 
now  aged  and  infirm.  He  glanced  at  the  pew  in  which 
he  had  sat  Sunday  after  Sunday  listening  to  the  Vicar's 
silvery  voice.  Against  that  pillar  his  old  friend,  the  Colonel, 
would  lean  his  broad  back  and  doze  off  if  the  sermon  failed 
to  keep  him  awake.  Upon  the  left  of  the  main  aisle,  where 
the  women  sat,  Tim  saw  the  red  hassock  which  belonged  to 
Miss  Janetta  Vanburgh.  Had  time  chastened  the  acerbity 
of  her  "Amen"  ?  Under  the  pulpit  was  Mary  Nightingale's 
seat. 

He  left  the  church  profoundly  melancholy,  quickening  his 
steps  as  he  entered  the  Vicarage  garden,  knowing  that  the 
Vicar  might  see  him,  if  he  happened  to  be  sitting  at  his 
desk.  The  study  windows  were  wide  open.  Above  the 
path,  upon  sloping  ground  to  the  left  of  the  house,  was  the 

353 


Timothy 

lawn  and  a  great  over-shadowing  cedar.  The  Vicar  might 
be  there.  In  fine  weather  he  drank  tea  just  outside  the 
dining-room.  Tim's  heart  began  to  beat,  as  he  saw  a  figure 
in  a  chair.  But  the  figure  wore  grey  flannel.  Some  stranger, 
then,  was  staying  at  the  Vicarage.  What  an  exasperating 
mischance !  Yes ;  the  stranger  was  a  young  man,  who 
seemed  to  make  himself  at  home.  He  was  reading,  with 
his  feet  at  ease  upon  another  chair.  In  just  a  position,  per- 
haps in  the  same  chair,  Tim  had  struggled  with  the  idioms 
of  Aristophanes.  By  the  young  man's  side  stood  a  small 
table  with  books  upon  it,  which  had  the  appearance  of  text- 
books. Tim  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Vicar  had  a 
pupil.  He  consigned  the  youth  to  perdition,  as  he  rounded 
the  corner,  and  approached  the  front  door. 


IV 

"My  boy !    My  dear,  dear  boy !" 

"Father !" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  Vicar's  emotion,  as  he 
held  Tim's  hands  and  gazed  eagerly  into  his  eyes.  For  a 
moment  Tim,  too,  remained  speechless,  forgetting  every- 
thing except  the  pressure  of  those  hands  and  the  welcome 
in  the  quiet  voice.  Then  they  surveyed  each  other  with 
anxious  scrutiny,  whilst  the  Vicar's  hands  rested  upon  Tim's 
shoulders.  They  were  alone  in  the  study.  Tim  perceived 
that  his  guardian  had  become  an  old  man,  still  erect,  with 
eyes  which  had  lost  neither  fire  nor  penetration,  but  white- 
haired,  wrinkled,  too  thin,  too  pale,  a  sublimated  present- 
ment of  his  former  self.  He  could  not  doubt  that  the 
Vicar's  time  on  earth  must  necessarily  be  brief ;  and  he  felt 
a  pang  of  anger  because  Daffy  had  not  prepared  him  for 
such  a  grievous  change.  Then  he  remembered  that  Tertius 
White  was  seventy,  and  that  he  went  about  his  work  in  all 
weathers  regardless  of  personal  comfort  where  the  comfort 
of  others  might  be  concerned. 
354 


Jack 

They  sat  down;  the  Vicar  gently  pressed  Tim  into  the 
armchair  facing  the  window,  seating  himself  upon  the 
Windsor  chair  upon  which  Tim  had  wriggled  so  uneasily 
as  a  boy. 

"I  want  to  look  at  my — son." 

"Am  I  changed  much?" 

"You  are  a  strong  man;  but  I  see  the  boy."  He  lifted 
his  fine  head,  adding  quietly:  "I  thank  God." 

Tim  remained  silent,  ravaged  by  remorse.  He  ought  to 
have  come  home  before.  Vanity,  false  shame,  false  pride, 
had  prevented  him.  He  realised  this  intensely,  flushing  be- 
neath those  keen  kind  eyes.  And  he  said  as  much  with 
a  feeling  which  brought  an  answering  flush  into  the  Vicar's 
cheeks. 

"You  are  here.  I  understand;  I  have  waited  patiently, 
knowing  the  bitter-sweetness  of  this  meeting.  The  bitter- 
ness has  passed,  has  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  Tim  answered  humbly,  for  any  petty  feeling  of 
triumph  seemed  to  have  oozed  from  him,  clearing  his  vision, 
so  that  he  saw  for  the  first  time  his  true  relation  to  the  man 
who  had  given  so  much  and  asked  for  so  little. 

The  Vicar  began  to  speak  of  Tim's  work,  rejoicing  so 
simply  and  sincerely  in  his  small  success  that  Tim  found 
himself  answering  in  choked  monosyllables.  He  wanted  to 
escape  for  a  few  minutes,  to  recover  his  self-control,  to 
measure — if  he  could — the  confounding  sense  of  disinte- 
gration which  this  meeting  had  wrought  so  swiftly  and 
unexpectedly.  He  had  pictured  himself  cool  and  at  ease, 
speaking  fluently  of  the  past  and  the  future,  making  good ! 
Instead,  he  was  writhing  beneath  an  intolerable  humilia- 
tion. 

He  stood  up. 

"I  must  go  out,"  he  faltered.  "This  has  been  too  much 
for  me." 

"Yes;  yes." 

Tim  fled  into  the  garden.     The  Vicar  remained  for  a 

355 


Timothy 


moment  staring  at  the  picture  of  Tim's  mother.    Then  he 
knelt  down. 


Tim  passed  through  the  dining-room,  and  on  to  the 
lawn,  oblivious  of  the  stranger  whom  he  had  condemned  as 
an  intruder  a  few  minutes  before.  The  youth  heard  him 
coming,  and  jumped  up  with  a  smile  upon  his  face.  Tim 
stared  a,t  him,  as  the  boy  said  pleasantly : 

"You  are  Mr.  White?    Are  you  looking  for  the  Vicar?" 

Tim  hesitated.  To  pass  a  guest  in  his  father's  house 
without  a  word  would  be  churlish.  He  said  awkwardly : 

"I  have  just  seen  him." 

The  boy  nodded,  continuing  joyously: 

"How  splendid!  We  have  talked  of  nothing  else,  ever 
since  we  heard  that  you  were  coming.  It  wasn't  too  much 
for  him,  was  it?" 

The  sympathy  in  his  voice  challenged  Tim's  attention. 
Obviously,  his  first  guess  had  been  the  right  one.  This  nice 
young  fellow  was  a  pupil  and  a  friend.  The  mere  tone  of 
the  "we"  established  that.  Tim  replied  confusedly : 

"It  was  too  much  for  me." 

The  boy  nodded. 

"I  should  jolly  well  think  so — after  sixteen  years!" 

Tim  dropped  into  a  chair.  The  boy's  prattle  soothed 
him.  Perhaps  he  dreaded  being  alone  with  his  thoughts. 

Also,  something  quite  indefinable  about  the  boy,  some- 
thing familiar  and  yet  unfamiliar,  provoked  his  curiosity. 
Was  he  a  Pennington?  Or  some  kinsman  of  the  Vicar's? 
But  he  as,ked  no  questions,  listening  half  absently  to  the 
joyous  voice  rattling  on  : 

"We  got  ready  your  old  room.  Have  you  seen  it?  No. 
We  collected  your  books.  I  had  some  of  'em  in  my  room. 
And  to-morrow  there's  to  be  a  sort  of  feast.  The  Vicar 
has  asked  half  the  village  to  tea.  Mr.  Hazel  is  as  excited 
as  anybody.  And  Benner.  And  Judd.  After  breakfast  this 
356 


Jack 

morning  we  went  down  into  the  cellar.  There  are  one  or 
two  bottles  of  the  famous  Pennington  Madeira  left.  I  say, 
I'm  not  making  myself  a  nuisance,  am  I?  Of  course,  you 
don't  know  me,  but  I  know  you,  because  everybody  has 
talked  to  me  about  you.  I  dare  say  you  want  to  be  quiet. 
Shall  I  hook  it?" 

"No.    My  father  and  you  seem  to  be  friends." 

"Rather.     He's  been  ripping  to  me." 

"Has  he?  Suppose  you  tell  me  who  you  are.  Introduce 
yourself  in  form." 

To  Tim's  astonishment,  the  boy  looked  embarrassed.  The 
light  died  out  of  his  eyes.  He  said  hesitatingly: 

"Then  he  has  never  written  to  you  about — me?" 

"Never." 

"He  took  me  out  of  an  orphanage,  Mr.  White.  If  you 
don't  mind,  I'd  sooner  you  asked  him.  I — I  don't  know 
very  much  about  myself." 

Tim  said  hastily: 

"Then  you  live  here?" 

"Yes.     This  has  been  my  home  for  ten  years." 

Tim  was  astounded.  Why  had  the  Vicar  never  men- 
tioned this  boy  in  his  letters?  He  examined  him  more  at- 
tentively, with  an  odd  but  unmistakable  jealousy.  Evidently, 
this  orphan  had  taken  his  place.  He  frowned,  and  then 
a  more  generous  emotion  banished  both  frown  and  jealousy. 
The  boy  had  brought  youth  and  mirth  to  this  empty  house. 
He  had  cheered  the  Vicar's  solitude. 

"What  does  my  father  call  you?" 

"Jack." 

"Shake!"  said  Tim. 

In  silence  they  gripped  hands.  The  boy  was  tall  and 
fair,  singularly  alert,  a  personality.  It  was  strange  that 
Daffy  had  never  spoken  of  him.  As  he  held  the  boy's  hand, 
Tim  asked  a  question: 

"Have  you  met  Lady  Rokeby?" 

Jack's  eyes  sparkled;  the  joyous  smile  came  back. 

"Oh,  yes ;  she's  a  ripper  too !" 

357 


Timothy 

Tim  thought  that  he  could  interpret  Daffy's  silence  in 
regard  to  this  attractive  youth.  In  a  sense  he  had  sup- 
planted an  absent  son,  filled  a  void  in  an  old  man's  heart. 
The  fear  of  wounding  a  friend  accounted  adequately  for 
Daffy's  reserve.  Tim  rose  out  of  his  chair,  feeling  cramped. 
He  told  himself  that  a  walk  round  the  village  would  restore 
his  circulation. 

"Look  here,  Jack.  I  want  to  stretch  my  legs.  Come 
along!" 

"Are  you  sure  you  want  me,  sir  ?" 

"Quite  sure.     Go  on  talking  about  my  father." 

His  heart  was  warming  towards  the  young  fellow;  he 
eyed  him  with  increasing  approval,  marking  an  air  of  dis- 
tinction and  a  delightful  absence  of  swagger.  And  he  knew 
also  that  Jack  was  eager  to  please  him,  that  he  had  cap- 
tivated the  youth,  whose  jolly  grin  would  serve  as  a  pass- 
port commending  the  owner  to  most  strangers.  It  would 
be  easy  to  elicit  information  from  such  an  ingenuous  source, 
the  details  which  Daffy  had  withheld  for  reasons  which 
still  perplexed  him.  He  took  the  boy's  arm,  pressing  it 
genially,  delighted  to  feel  that  he  was  himself  again,  that  a 
balance  badly  shaken  had  regained  its  normal  equilibrium. 
Certainly,  the  Vicar  had  exhibited  perspicacity  in  selecting 
this  orphan.  And  how  like  him  to  pick  a  bit  of  fine  clay 
plastic  to  his  hand.  His  thoughts  swooped  farther  afield. 
This,  undoubtedly,  was  the  Vicar's  second  great  experiment. 
Had  he  yearned  for  a  triumph  which  might  obliterate  the 
memory  of  a  failure?  And  if  this  boy  should  prove  a 
failure ! 

Whilst  these  reflections  were  jostling  each  other  in  his 
mind,  he  asked  lightly: 

"And  my  father's  health?" 

The  boy  answered  gravely : 

"Oh,  sir,  he  doesn't  take  enough  care  of  himself.  But 
now  he  will  listen  to  you.  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"Why?"     He  was  amused  by  the  confident  tone.     Jack 
hesitated,  saying  shyly: 
358 


Jack 

"You  look  as  if  you  could  get  people  to  do  what  you 
want." 

"Do  I  ?  Well,  I  shall  endeavour  to  satisfy  your  expecta- 
tions. He  is  terribly  frail." 

"He  is  seventy-one,  sir." 

"I  know — I  know,  but  is  there  anything  organically 
wrong?  You  understand  me?" 

"He  works  too  hard ;  and  he  eats  too  little.  That's  what 
the  doctor  says." 

"The  doctor?    Does  he  come  regularly?" 

"Oh,  no.  He  drops  in  now  and  again.  He  told  me  to 
keep  an  eye  on  him,  to  spare  him  as  much  as  possible.  But 
it's  not  easy  for  me,"  his  voice  betrayed  anxiety,  "because 
he  hates  being  fussed  over.  Perhaps  he  would  stand  seme 
coddling  from  you." 

"I  wonder,"  murmured  Tim.  "I  noticed  your  books — 
that  confounded  Liddell  and  Scott,  the  same  one  I  used. 
Is  he  cramming  you  for  any  exam?" 

"Yes;  f of  the  India  Civil." 

The  reply  smote  Tim.  Now  he  knew,  now  he  under- 
stood, the  veil  between  himself  and  the  Vicar  dissolved. 
This  jolly,  quick-witted  boy  had  indeed  stepped  into  his 
empty  shoes,  and  into  the  place  which  had  been  his  in  the 
parson's  house  and  heart.  It  was  the  boy,  not  the  grown 
man,  who  was  destined  to  justify  Tertius  White's  creed,  his 
fervent  belief  that  good  prevailed.  Tim  said  hoarsely,  won- 
dering whether  he  betrayed  the  emotion  surging  within  him : 

"Are  you  keen  ?" 

"Keen!  Oh,  yes,  I'm  frightfully  keen,  but  I'm  not  half 
as  clever  as  you,  sir.  I  crawl — so  the  Vicar  says — where 
you  pranced  along.  But  he  thinks  I  shall  pass.  And  it's 
such  a  splendid  service,  such  opportunities !" 

"Opportunities  for  what,  Jack?" 

But  he  divined  that  the  boy's  answer  would  be  quite 
other  than  what  he  would  have  replied.  He  could  hear 
himself  saying  to  Daffy  in  the  Dell :  "It  means  four  hun- 
dred a  year  and  perks — it  means  you."  The  very  words 

359 


Timothy 

leapt  out  of  some  hiding-place  in  his  memory,  as  he  heard 
the  boy's  eager  tones — 

"The  Vicar  has  told  me  how  badly  men  are  wanted, 
of  what  has  been  done  by  the  right  sort.  Lawrence  and 
all  the  others.  What  a  field !  What " 

He  broke  off,  flushing  and  faltering.  Tim  found  it  dis- 
concerting to  interpret  this  embarrassment.  The  boy  knew 
that  Tim  White  had  been  trained,  as  he  had  been,  for  work 
in  this  field,  and  had  then  forsaken  it. 

"I  see.  You  have  remembered  that  I  didn't  go  to  India. 
Do  you  know  why?" 

"I  don't,  sir." 

Jack  spoke  with  that  unmistakable  sincerity  which  evokes 
sincerity  from  others.  Without  pausing  to  pick  his  phrases, 
Tim  muttered : 

"I  made  a  mess  of  things,  you  understand."  And  then, 
with  a  vehemence  which  surprised  his  listener,  he  gripped 
the  arm  within  his  own,  saying :  "I  may  tell  you  about  that 
when  we  get  better  acquainted.  It's  a  nasty  story.  It — 
it  jumps  out  of  the  past,  my  boy,  and  hits  me  in  the  eye 
— to-day.  But  you  won't  make  a  mess  of  things.  You'll 
pass  ?" 

"I  hope  so." 

They  had  reached  the  village  forge,  where  George  Chalk 
the  blacksmith,  was  shoeing  a  great  brown  mare. 

"It's  Mr.  Tim!" 

"How  are  you,  George  ?" 

"Lard  ha'  mercy  on  us !  I'd  ha'  known  'ee  anywheres. 
Parson  told  me  you  was  expected.  'Tis  a  joyful  day  for 
him,  dear  man!" 

Yes ;  the  parson  had  kept  his  memory  green  in  Little 
Pennington. 

"Home-along  at  last,"  said  George.    "Ah !  we  missed  'ee 

rarely,  yes,  we  did.     Full  o'  life,  you  was,  Mr.  Tim.    I  be 

married  this  many  a  year  now.    I  married  Everannie  Bunce. 

You   ain't    forgotten   Everannie?     Not   you!     Mother   o' 

360 


Jack 


seven!  Come  over  to  the  house,  Mr.  Tim,  and  taste  her 
currant  wine." 

Jack  nudged  Tim's  arm. 

"I  say,  sir,  shall  I  nip  back  and  fetch  the  Vicar?  He 
wouldn't  miss  this  for  the  world." 

Tim  nodded. 

"We'll  go  back  to  him  together." 


361 


CHAPTER  III 

ILLUMINATION 

I 

A  PLEASANT  pilgrimage  followed.  But  when  Jack 
JL\  and  Tim  stood  together  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
study,  Tim  became  aware  of  a  look  upon  the  Vicar's  face. 
Wonder  informed  its  quiet  serenity  and  an  austere  grati- 
fication. 

"We  two  have  made  friends,"  said  Tim.  At  the  mo- 
ment he  felt  intensely  grateful  to  this  boy,  beholding  him 
as  the  crutch  of  declining  years,  the  Benjamin  who  had 
filled  Joseph's  place.  If  bitterness  lay  beneath  such  a  rec- 
ognition, if  belated  remorse  for  an  absence  too  protracted 
cut  deep  into  his  sensibilities,  if  he  beheld  himself  shrunk 
to  truer  proportions,  he  could  yet  rise  above  such  melan- 
choly thoughts  and  rejoice. 

The  three  set  forth  upon  a  round  of  visits,  whither  we 
need  not  follow  them.  Jack,  the  acolyte,  remained  in  the 
background;  but  Tim  was  strangely  sensible  of  his  pres- 
ence, conscious  that  in  some  mysterious  fashion  the  boy 
had  to  be  there,  a  necessary  eyewitness,  an  inevitable  corol- 
lary. Obviously,  too,  Jack  was  welcome  for  himself. 
Watching  him,  Tim  could  touch  with  prehensile,  sensitive 
fingers  his  own  youth,  and  compute  the  effect  of  youth  upon 
age,  its  appeal,  its  allurement.  And  in  Jack  he  could  see 
the  Cherub  as  he  might  have  been,  the  Cherub  grown  into 
just  such  a  tall,  fair,  slender  boy.  There  was  a  look  about 
the  eyes,  something  in  the  shape  of  the  head,  in  the  model- 
ling of  the  chin,  which  seemed  to  raise  his  little  son  from 
the  dead. 
362 


Illumination 

And  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be  more 
than  coincidence  in  this  fleeting,  elusive  resemblance. 


ii 

Presently,  he  found  himself  alone  in  his  bedroom.  He 
sat  down  upon  the  bed,  staring  at  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 
There  were  groups  taken  at  Eton,  framed  photographs  by 
Hills  and  Saunders  embellished  with  the  College  arms,  the 
"twenty-two"  cap  upon  a  nail,  the  school-books;  and  in  a 
cupboard  the  bat  which  he  had  hoped  to  wield  at  Lord's. 
Above  the  mantel-piece  grinned  the  mask  of  a  fox  killed 
in  the  open.  Tim  had  ridden  one  of  Sir  Gilbert's  horses, 
which  carried  him  stoutly.  And  beside  the  mask  hung  a 
fine  steel-engraving  of  the  Squire,  taken  from  the  famous 
portrait  by  Richmond.  Just  opposite  was  the  still  finer 
mezzotint  of  the  poet  and  prophet.  The  two  friends  seemed 
to  be  smiling  at  each  other.  As  a  boy  Tim  had  never 
appreciated  these  portraits.  How  amazing!  What  reveal- 
ing documents ! 

Time  sped  by  as  Tim  sat  upon  his  bed.  He  dressed 
hastily  and  went  down  to  dinner  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream. 
But  it  is  truer  to  say  that  he  had  penetrated  through  the 
surface  of  things  to  zones  of  his  own  being  hitherto  un- 
plumbed.  A  strange  fear  of  himself  gripped  him,  a  curi- 
ous contempt  for  the  outer  man  warped  by  circumstance, 
parti-coloured — white,  green,  brown  and  black.  Had  some 
essential  part  remained  unchanged  and  unstained? 

After  dinner  the  famous  Madeira  produced  its  effect. 
Tim  talked  of  California.  The  Vicar  listened,  lying  back 
in  his  chair,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand;  Jack  sat  bolt 
upright,  now  and  again  moving  restlessly,  as  the  spirit  of 
adventure  clawed  at  his  vitals.  No  story-teller  could  have 
found  a  better  audience  than  these  two,  the  old  man  whose 
work  was  nearly  done,  the  youth  with  the  world  stretching 
wide  before  his  eager,  shining  eyes.  Tim  warmed  into 

363 


Timothy 

speech,  talking  as  he  used  to  talk  to  the  pilgrims  when  he 
snowed  them  land  upon  the  Santa  Margarita.  The  Vicar 
remembered  Rupert  Carteret  and  his  torrens  dicendi  copia, 
which  swept  all  before  it.  And  yet  this  stirring  recital 
of  actions  and  reactions  in  a  new,  wild  country  obscured 
rather  than  revealed  the  speaker.  He  wanted  to  see  Tim 
clearly,  and  a  flood  of  words  submerged  him.  Tim's  let- 
ters had  been  like  this,  a  recital  of  happenings,  interest- 
ing because  they  were  true,  because  they  illuminated  condi- 
tions so  different  from  those  to  which  a  country  parson 
was  accustomed,  but  of  the  effect  upon  the  character  of 
the  protagonist  no  soul-satisfying  glimpse  had  been  vouch- 
safed. 

It  was  late  when  Tim  finished,  too  late  for  a  talk  alone 
with  the  Vicar,  who  looked  tired,  almost  exhausted.  Tim 
lit  a  candle,  handing  it  to  his  father  with  a  remorseful — 

"I  have  worn  you  out." 

The  Vicar  smiled,  shaking  his  head. 

"It  has  been  a  memorable  day.  To-morrow  after  break- 
fast, while  Jack  is  wrestling  with  his  Greek,  we  two  will 
spend  an  hour  together.  Good-night,  my  dear  son." 

He  ascended  the  stairs  slowly,  looking  back  twice  to  nod 
affectionately.  When  the  bedroom  door  closed  behind  him, 
Tim  said : 

"How  slowly  he  went  up !" 

"Yes ;  he  gets  breathless  very  easily.  Shall  I  put  out 
the  lights,  sir?" 

Tim  started.  The  words  carried  him  back  seventeen 
years.  Some  inflection  of  the  boy's  voice,  a  subtle  tone, 
brought  Ivy  Jellicoe  out  of  the  mists  of  the  past.  Deliber- 
ately he  had  banished  her  from  his  thoughts.  For  ten 
years  there  had  been  no  mention  of  her  or  her  child  in 
the  Vicar's  letters.  After  Tim's  marriage,  when  there  was 
money  to  spare,  he  had  offered  to  provide  for  Ivy  and  the 
child;  but  the  Vicar  had  replied  rather  curtly,  saying  that 
this  was  unnecessary.  Jack  repeated  the  words: 

"Shall  I  put  out  the  lights,  sir?" 
364 


Illumination 

"Yes,  do !    Good-night,  my  boy." 

"Good-night,  sir.  It  was  awfully  exciting  listening  to  you. 
I  simply  loved  it." 

They  shook  hands ;  and  Jack  may  have  wondered  why 
the  man  so  fluent  a  few  minutes  before,  so  gay,  so  im- 
petuous, had  become  of  a  sudden  grave  and  impassive. 
He  accounted  easily  for  the  change.  This  big,  strong  son 
was  worried  and  unhappy  about  a  father's  health.  He 
said  shyly: 

"It  will  be  all  right  now  you've  come  back.  He  never 
said  much,  but  he  wanted  you  most  awfully." 

Tim  went  upstairs. 

in 

He  sat  down  by  the  open  window  and  lit  a  pipe.  Rain 
had  fallen  during  the  evening.  From  the  moist  earth  as- 
cended those  vernal  odours  which  stir  the  memory.  Tim 
loved  this  rich,  satisfying  fragrance,  emanation  from  a 
grateful,  teeming  soil.  He  could  recall  a  night  in  Cali- 
fornia, when  he  stood  bareheaded  in  his  garden,  letting 
the  rain  soak  to  his  skin,  waiting  for  this  revivifying  ex- 
perience, this  titillating  sensation,  so  significant  to  dwellers 
in  a  land  of  drought.  But  now  he  was  thinking  not  of 
California,  but  of  rain-drenched  bracken  in  a  copse  near 
Lanterton,  where  a  boy  stood  impatiently  expecting  a  girl. 
He  could  see  her  flitting  through  the  trees,  glancing  to 
right  and  left,  fear  upon  her  pretty  face,  as  she  hastened 
to  her  lover.  It  all  came  back  vividly,  his  tormenting 
thoughts  about  the  future;  her  provoking,  careless  accept- 
ance of  the  present,  clouded  for  her  by  a  passing  shower, 
and  joyously  brightened  by  a  box  of  chocolates. 

Where  was  Ivy  now?    Where  was  her  child? 

Then  he  told  himself,  wonderingly,  that  the  child  must 
be  a  young  man.  How  astounding!  Why  had  he  so 
forgotten  the  flight  of  time? 

Ivy  had  come  to  this  room,  at  this  very  hour,  so  fate- 

365 


Timothy 

ful  for  her  and  him,  so  pregnant,  had  he  known  it  at  the 
time,  with  incalculable  possibilities.  The  key  which  he  had 
silently  turned  still  lay  in  the  lock.  The  turning  of  it  had 
cut  him  off  from  Daffy. 

"Shall  I  put  out  the  lights,  sir?" 

He  stared  into  the  darkness.  Heavy  clouds  impended, 
but  a  few  stars  twinkled  between  them.  Ivy  faded  out 
of  his  mind.  He  beheld  Jack;  he  heard  Jack's  voice  with 
that  odd  inflection,  so  familiar,  so  insistent. 

Then  everything  became  dazzlingly  clear. 

Jack  was  Ivy's  son — his  son — his  flesh  and  blood! 

"Oh,  my  God !"  he  exclaimed.    "Oh,  my  God,  my  God !" 

He  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  unable  as  yet 
to  apprehend  details,  conscious  only  of  this  fierce,  glaring, 
blinding  illumination,  as  if  he  were  alone  a  burning  atom 
in  illimitable  space. 

Doubt  assailed  him  for  a  few  minutes.  He  opened  the 
door.  Jack's  room  lay  next  to  his.  He  listened.  The 
boy's  breathing  could  be  heard.  He  must  have  been 
asleep  for  nearly  an  hour.  Tim  opened  Jack's  door  very 
quietly.  If  the  boy  awoke,  he  had  an  excuse  pat  upon 
his  tongue.  But  the  boy  slept  soundly,  tired  after  an  ex- 
citing day.  Tim  fetched  a  candle,  discarding  his  shoes.  He 
stole  silently  to  the  bedside,  shading  the  candle  with  his 
hand. 

Jack  lay  upon  his  side,  with  a  tousled  head  curled  into 
a  bare  arm.  So  the  Cherub  had  slept.  So  Tim  had  slept 
when  a  boy.  The  last  doubt  vanished.  This  was  indeed 
Ivy's  son  and  his.  The  boy  had  inherited  Ivy's  dark  lashes, 
and  the  delicate  modelling  of  her  cheeks.  The  wide  fore- 
head, the  thick  hair  growing  forward  at  the  temples,  the 
thin,  sensitive  nostrils  came  from  Tim.  The  bed-clothes 
were  half-flung  back,  displaying  a  broad  chest. 

"You  are  mine,"  said  Tim,  "my  son,  my  only  son." 

He  returned  to  his  room. 


366 


Illumination 


IV 

Throughout  that  night  he  kept  vigil  with  thoughts, — for 
the  first  time,  perhaps,  focussed  upon  others.  If  there  be 
any  truth  in  the  dictum  that  if  you  wish  to  change  a  man's 
character  you  must  change  his  point  of  view,  why,  then, 
the  character  of  Tim  became  changed  between  midnight 
and  dawn  upon  the  second  of  May.  During  five  hours  he 
stood  outside  himself,  or  outside  his  conscious  self,  for 
many  might  contend  that  the  soul  of  the  man  looked  down 
upon  body  and  mind.  Here  we  wade  into  deep  waters, 
and  will  leave  them. 

Whatever  faults  were  his,  and  they  have  not  been  hid- 
den in  this  narrative,  no  one  had  ever  charged  Tim  with 
cowardice.  Physical  courage  may  or  may  not  be  reck- 
oned a  king  virtue.  Often  it  degenerates  into  recklessness ; 
often  it  soars  into  the  empyrean  of  purest  altruism,  as  when 
a  man  deliberately  risks  his  life  to  save  another.  Tim, 
we  know,  was  capable  of  either  contingency;  he  had  sunk 
and  he  had  soared.  Now  he  was  poised  between  the  two 
poles,  confronted  by  consequence,  compelled  to  pass  judg- 
ment upon  what  he  had  done  and  left  undone. 

And  the  arresting  figure  in  his  quickened  intelligence,  the 
man — to  use  an  expression  of  the  theatre — who  "held  the 
stage,"  was  the  Vicar.  From  Tim's  earliest  childhood  till 
the  present  hour  that  personality  revealed  itself  with  ab- 
solute clarity  and  distinction.  Quarrel  as  you  might  with 
the  Vicar's  creed,  indict — as  Tim  had  often  done — a  code 
of  ethics  too  rigid  for  most  erring  mortals,  the  result  shone 
out  with  a  divine  radiance.  Tertius  White  had  conse- 
crated a  long  life  to  the  service  of  others;  he  had  shoul- 
dered their  burdens  and  responsibilities;  and  he  had  im- 
posed no  conditions. 

Nevertheless,  the  conditions  remained  to  be  self-imposed 
by  the  man  who  had  most  profited  by  this  altruism.  For 

367 


Timothy 

thirty-five  years  the  debt  had  been  steadily  swelling.  To- 
night it  must  be  computed  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 

Tim  felt  as  if  he  were  bleeding  to  death  inside,  the  death 
which  precedes  the  higher  life.  He  knew  that  the  Vicar 
had  passed  through  this  disintegration  before  he,  Tim,  was 
born. 

"Thou  fool !  that  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quickened  un- 
less it  die." 

The  text,  out  of  the  Burial  Service,  which  he  had  never 
attempted  to  understand,  came  into  his  mind,  a  straw  for 
a  drowning  man  to  clutch  at.  But  he  was  thinking  of  the 
Vicar,  not  of  himself,  repeating  again  and  again :  "He  must 
have  died.  And  then  he  lived — for  my  mother's  sake,  for 
mine,  and  for  my  boy's." 

He  had  never  envied  the  saint  till  this  moment.  How 
gladly  now  would  he  change  places  with  him.  How  small 
and  petty  were  the  ends  for  which  he  had  worked. 

Thus  he  sat  beside  the  open  window,  bowed  and  broken, 
gazing  into  the  darkness,  waiting  for  the  dawn.  When  the 
first  silvery  shafts  quivered  faintly  in  the  eastern  horizon, 
he  took  off  his  clothes,  got  into  bed,  and  slept. 


At  breakfast,  Tim  displayed  outwardly  no  sign  of  vigils. 
His  skin  was  too  tanned  by  wind  and  sun  to  look  pale. 
An  outsider  might  have  thought  that  the  Vicar,  not  he,  had 
lain  awake  for  many  hours,  but  the  Vicar,  it  seemed,  had 
slept  soundly.  He  read  prayers  in  the  same  quiet,  impres- 
sive voice;  he  ate  his  egg  and  a  thin  rasher  of  bacon;  he 
drank  one  cup  of  tea.  When  Jack  went  reluctantly  to  his 
Greek,  the  Vicar  took  Tim's  arm  and  led  him  into  the  study. 
By  this  time  Tim  had  regained  self-control;  he  knew  that 
any  excitement  would  react  disastrously  upon  his  father; 
he  told  himself  that  he  must  be  calm  for  an  old  man's  sake. 
But,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  he  said  quietly : 
368 


Illumination 

"I  have  guessed  who  Jack  is ;  I  have  spent  the  night  think- 
ing of  what  you  have  done  for  me." 

The  Vicar  said  nervously : 

"And  wondering  why  I  kept  it  secret  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did  wonder  at  that." 

"I'll  try  to  explain,  Tim.  The  boy  was  born  in  Lon- 
don. You  had  my  promise  that  I  would  look  after  the 
mother.  I  did  so  to  the  best  of  my  ability."  He  sighed, 
continuing  slowly:  "It  was  not  easy.  Very  soon  I  dis- 
covered that  the  child  was  neglected,  not  wilfully,  but 
through  ignorance  and  carelessness.  The  mother  jumped 
at  my  suggestion  that  Jack  should  be  placed  in  a  home. 
Then  I  got  her  a  respectable  place.  She  left  it;  I  found 
her  another.  I — I  did  my  best,  but  she  drifted  on  to  the 
streets." 

Tim  groaned. 

"I  tried  again  and  again,"  the  Vicar  continued  mourn- 
fully; "others  tried,  too.  She  never  went  near  the  child. 
Well,  I  can  understand  that." 

"Looking  at  him  now,  I  can't." 

"The  maternal  instinct  seemed  to  be  lacking.  When  the 
boy  was  five  years  old,  I  heard  of  your  marriage.  I  began 
to  abandon  the  hope  of  seeing  you.  My  thoughts  dwelt 
persistently  upon  the  child.  The  scandal  in  the  village 
had  died  a  natural  death.  When  I  brought  Jack  here,  under 
the  name  of  John  Southwark — the  orphanage  was  in  South- 
wark — nobody  suspected  that  he  was  yours." 

"Nobody?" 

"Except  Daphne  Rokeby.  She  guessed ;  she  saw  a  faint 
likeness;  I  often  see  it;  and  then  I  told  her." 

"Does  Jack  know  about  his  mother?" 

"He  knows  nothing;  when  the  right  time  comes,  you 
will  tell  him." 

"Heavens!  For  ten  years  you  have  fathered  my  son, 
as  you  fathered  me." 

"I  did  it  gladly.  I  kept  it  secret  from  you  for  two 
reasons :  you  were  far  away  and  I  wanted  you  to  see 

369 


Timothy 

the  boy  first.  The  other  reason  was  more  subtle.  I  de- 
sired passionately  to  test  my  own  faith  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  good  over  evil.  There  is  much  good  in  your 
son,  Tim.  I  speak  of  what  I  know." 

"What  can  I  say — what  can  I  say  ?" 

"Tell  me  frankly  what  you  think  of  him?" 

"He  is  a  son  that  any  father  might  be  proud  of;  and 
he  owes  everything — as  I  do — to  you.  I  can  think  of  noth- 
ing else  except  that — his  debt  and  mine  to  you." 

"Tim,  the  boy  has  paid  in  full.  He  is  very  dear  to  me, 
not  dearer  than  you ;  that  would  be  impossible,  but  the 
care  of  him  has  been  no  burden,  only  a  pleasure." 

"Where  is  the  mother  now?" 

"Alas !  I  can't  tell  you.  She  slipped  through  my  fingers. 
For  a  time  she  prospered,  because  she  was  so  pretty,  and 
she  had  engaging  ways.  From  what  I  saw  of  her,  I  could 
understand  how  greatly  you  must  have  been  tempted.  I 
sometimes  hope  that  she  is  dead." 

Tim  covered  his  face;  when  he  looked  up  again,  the 
Vicar  hardly  recognised  him,  so  ravaged  was  he  by  emotion 
and  remorse.  He  said  hoarsely : 

"I  came  back  blown  out  with  conceit.  Daffy  made  me 
come.  She  warned  me  that  I  must  pass  through  an  ordeal. 
Father,"  his  voice  shook,  "I'm  not  fit  to  go  down  on  my 
knees  and  kiss  your  boots !  I  feel  like  a  pricked  bladder. 
You  must  give  me  time  to  recover,  time  to  understand 
you,  and  this  boy,  and  myself." 

"Yes,  yes;  take  all  the  time  you  need,  Tim." 

They  sat  on  together,  in  an  intimacy  which  seemed  to 
increase  as  the  Vicar  talked  about  the  boy.  Tim,  in  his 
turn,  spoke  of  Magdalena  and  the  Cherub.  Then  he  fetched 
his  book,  watching  the  Vicar's  face  when  he  turned  to  the 
dedicatory  page,  hearing  the  pleased  exclamation  when  he 
read  his  own  name.  They  went  for  a  stroll  in  Penning- 
ton  Park,  passing  the  great  empty  house,  soon  to  become 
the  home  of  a  stranger.  The  Vicar  began  to  talk  of  Sir 
370 


Illumination 

Gilbert,  of  the  long  years  during  which  they  had  worked 
together.  At  the  end  he  said: 

"He  had  faith  in  you,  Tim.  Just  before  he  died,  when 
we  may  believe  that  the  spirit  of  prophecy  must  inform 
such  a  man,  he  whispered  to  me  that  you  would  come  back ; 
he  counselled  me  to  wait  patiently." 

As  he  spoke  he  leaned  upon  Tim's  arm,  an  eloquent  ap- 
peal of  age  and  infirmity  to  a  strong  man.  And  beneath  that 
kindly  pressure  Tim  felt  his  relaxed  moral  fibres  stiffening 
into  ropes  of  steel  binding  him  closer  and  closer  to  this 
generous  creditor.  He  exclaimed  derisively: 

"I  thought  that  I  had  made  good." 

"You  have,  my  dear  son,  you  have." 

"Not  yet,"  said  Tim. 

VI 

The  afternoon  came,  and  with  it  the  Vicar's  guests,  Hazel, 
Benner,  Mary  Nightingale,  the  Colonel,  the  village  doctor 
and  a  round  score  of  cottagers.  Journey  was  there,  a  stout 
fellow,  humorously  alive  to  the  fact  that  he  had  profited 
"by  losing  of  his  prayers." 

"I  be  quite  happy  now,"  he  assured  Tim.  "Little  Pen- 
nington  is  home  to  me,  Mr.  Tim,  and  has  been  this  many 
a  year.  When  I  heard  how  nigh  you  come  to  bein'  hanged, 
I  did  think  to  meself  that  a  live  saddler  in  Hampsheer  might 
be  better  off  than  a  dead  gentleman  in  Californy." 

"You  heard  the  tale  of  the  lynching?" 

Journey  said  proudly : 

"The  Vicar  read  us  bits  o'  your  letters,  Mr.  Tim.  That's 
how  we  kept  in  touch  with  'ee.  He  just  made  up  his  mind, 
seemingly,  that  you  warn't  to  be  forgotten.  Lard  A'mighty ! 
I  be  glad  to  see  'ee  for  your  own  sake,  and  gladder  still 
for  his." 

After  tea,  Tim  had  a  word  with  the  doctor. 

"How  is  my  father?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  tried  to  evade  giving  a  candid  answer. 


Timothy 

"He's  getting  along  in  years,  Tim.  Bless  my  soul!  how 
they  do  spin  by — even  in  Little  Pennington." 

Tim  was  seldom  irritable  with  his  friends,  although  a 
habit  of  getting  exasperated  with  himself  was  slowly  form- 
ing; he  said  incisively: 

"Are  his  arteries  thickening?  Is  there  any  lesion  of 
the  heart  ?  Any  degeneration  ?" 

This  terminology,  acquired  from  Wason,  served  to  re- 
mind the  doctor  that  Tim  himself  was  older.  He  replied 
in  a  different  tone: 

"It's  like  this.  He  is  very  frail.  You  can  see  that ;  and 
the  sort  of  man  who  goes  till  he  drops.  He  might  go  at 
any  moment,  for  there  is  cardiac  weakness.  But,  with  care, 
he  may  live  for  another  ten  years.  He  is  singularly  free 
from  the  petty  ailments  of  old  age.  He  doesn't  suffer  from 
rheumatism  or  dyspepsia.  The  machine  is  wearing  out, 
that's  all." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tim  gravely. 

"I  meant  to  speak  to  you.  Exposure  or  shock  would 
be  probably  fatal." 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  home,  Tim.  You  will  keep  an 
eye  on  him.  He's  a  rare  bit,  eh  ?" 

"He  is,  indeed." 

"Do  you  find  him  much  changed?  I'm  not  speaking 
of  his  appearance." 

Tim  was  unable  to  answer  this  question.  The  doctor 
went  on : — 

"His  sermons  now.  They  are  more  than  straws  to  indi- 
cate the  change  I  hint  at.  In  the  old  days,  if  one  dared 
to  criticize — and  I'll  own  that  I  did — I  found  them  rather 
over  my  head." 

Tim's  interest  was  challenged. 

"So  did  I." 

"They  were  too  academic,  too  rigid,  seldom  parochial. 
He  preaches  now  in  a  more  intimate  way,  less  dogma,  you 
know.  His  themes  are  very  simple.  He  talks  to  us  in  his 
372 


Illumination 

quiet,  impressive  manner  about  the  things  which  make  for 
happiness  or  unhappiness  in  a  village.  He  lays  before  us 
the  effects  of  slander,  lying,  obscenity,  and  all  the  subtle 
forms  of  intemperance  and  unkindness.  Next  Sunday  you 
will  hear  and  understand.  I  can  say  to  you  that  he  seems 
to  have  descended  from  the  heights  to  walk  familiarly 
amongst  us.  His  influence  here  is  greater  than  it  has  ever 
been.  You  will  judge  for  yourself  of  that." 

"Lord  love  you!"  said  Tim.  "Don't  I  feel  it  in  my 
bones." 

The  doctor  was  a  reserved  man,  no  sentimentalist,  but 
he  added  a  few  words  which  impressed  Tim : 

"I  would  sacrifice  much,  Tim,  to  keep  your  dear  father 
with  us  as  long  as  possible.  It  is  a  privilege  to  do  him 
any  service." 

Similar  testimony  was  forthcoming  from  Arthur  Hazel 
and  Mary  Nightingale,  unstinted  tributes  from  fellow- 
workers.  And  when  the  time  came  to  take  leave  of  their 
host,  it  was  Hazel  who  expressed  what  was  in  the  hearts 
of  the  Vicar's  guests. 

"We  have  met  here,"  he  said,  "for  a  very  special  purpose, 
to  welcome  home  our  Vicar's  son  after  long  absence.  I 
speak  for  all  of  you  when  I  say  that  we  have  hoped  and 
prayed  that  this  happy  day  might  come.  For  more  than 
thirty  years  our  parson  has  shared  our  joys  and  sorrows. 
During  that  long  period  of  time  he  has  given  to  us  un- 
grudgingly all  that  such  a  man  could  give,  never  counting 
the  cost  to  himself.  To  me  he  looks  ten  years  younger 
this  afternoon.  And  what  we  all  feel  about  this  home- 
coming is  hard  indeed  to  put  into  words,  because  our  affec- 
tion has  been  inspired  by  actions,  tender  ministrations  which 
can  never  be  forgotten,  a  debt  never  to  be  paid  here.  Be- 
cause of  this  his  joy  is  a  real  joy  to  us,  the  greater  because 
it  has  been  so  long  deferred.  On  your  behalf  I  bid  Mr. 
Tim  welcome  home;  and  I  ask  him  to  believe  that  his 
father's  happiness  is  ours,  and  that  we  share  it  whole- 
heartedly and  with  deepest  thanksgiving." 

373 


Timothy 

Those  present  gazed  at  Tim  and  at  his  father.  Every- 
body expected  the  Vicar  to  speak,  and  what  he  said  upon 
such  occasions  was  never  stereotyped,  a  few  words  simply 
chosen  and  as  simply  spoken. 

He  took  Tim's  arm,  and  advanced  a  few  steps,  so  that 
they  stood  together  facing  a  semi-circle  of  men  and  women. 
One  may  hazard  the  conjecture  that  none  of  those  pres- 
ent, except  Tim,  had  ever  beheld  the  Vicar  not  master 
of  himself.  When  his  sympathy  had  flowed  most  abun- 
dantly towards  some  stricken  soul,  he  remained  calm,  al- 
ways a  serene  example  of  fortitude  and  patience,  infusing 
his  strength  into  weakness. 

He  remained  silent. 

Everybody  understood  that  he  was  too  moved  to  speak. 
He  smiled  as  his  dimmed  glance  travelled  from  one  face 
to  another;  but  his  quivering  lips  refused  their  office. 
He  pressed  Tim's  arm.  Tim  spoke  for  him. 

"My  father's  silence,"  he  said  gravely,  "answers  Mr.  Ha- 
zel as  he  would,  I  fancy,  wish  to  be  answered,  for  behind 
it  is  the  assurance  that  his  affection  for  all  of  you  is  too 
deep  for  words.  I  thank  you  for  him,  and  I  will  add  this 
for  myself:  I  have  thought  over  this  homecoming  a  thou- 
sand times,  and  I  have  wondered  how  I  should  feel  when 
I  stood  once  more  amongst  the  friends  of  my  childhood 
with  my  dear  father  standing  beside  me.  Well,  it  has 
been  a  wonderful  experience,  a  memory  which  I  shall  carry 
with  me  to  my  grave.  I  have  wandered  far  from  you,  and 
I  feared  that  I  must  have  drifted  as  far  from  your  re- 
membrance of  me.  I  know  that  my  father  has  kept  that 
remembrance  alive,  and  in  thanking  you  for  this  welcome 
I  thank  him  with  all  my  heart.  If  there  be  anything  in  me 
deserving  of  your  affection  I  owe  it  to  him.  While  I  live 
I  shall  regret  bitterly  that  this  homecoming  was  delayed 
so  long.  It  means  far  more  to  me  than  either  he  or  you 
will  ever  know." 


374 


N1 


CHAPTER  IV 

RECONSTRUCTION 


EXT  day  Tim  walked  alone  through  Pennington  High 
Wood  till  he  came  to  the  poet's  cathedral.  The 
beeches  were  in  full  leaf.  The  wonderful  freshness  and 
translucency  of  the  foliage  caught  at  his  fancy  and  held 
it  captive.  His  last  visit  had  been  in  November,  when  days 
were  dun  and  drear. 

He  threw  himself  down  upon  the  soft  moss. 

Passing  through  Pennington  High  Wood  he  had  gath- 
ered a  few  primroses  and  violets  to  send  to  Daffy;  and 
he  had  found  a  woodpecker's  nest  in  the  same  hole  from 
which  long  ago  Journey  and  he  had  extracted  two  milk- 
white  eggs  with  a  long  spoon.  In  the  glades  some  brim- 
stone butterflies  were  flitting  here  and  there  in  .the  sun- 
shine. Tim  remembered  what  keen  pleasure  the  collecting 
of  eggs  and  butterflies  had  been ;  and  he  wondered  whether 
he  could  renew  his  youth  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasures  so 
Arcadian  and  so  simple.  Jack  was  a  collector,  and  some- 
thing of  a  naturalist. 

He  had  come  to  the  cathedral  to  purge  his  mind  of  a  pas- 
sion which  could  never  be  gratified.  It  still  gripped  him 
unmercifully,  so  much  so  that  he  trembled  with  excite- 
ment when  he  recalled  the  look  upon  Daffy's  face,  its  sweet 
relaxation,  as  they  stood  together  upon  the  Pointe  du  Raz. 

But  he  faced  the  issues  honestly.  The  Vicar  stood  be- 
tween him  and  the  woman  he  loved.  To  gain  her  he  would 
have  to  trample  upon  his  spiritual  father.  And  that  meant 
the  loss  of  his  self-respect  and  hers.  Such  an  act  might 

375 


Timothy 

kill  the  Vicar.  Argue  how  he  might,  this  fact  was  incon- 
testably  established.  A  man  might  be  a  moral  idiot  accord- 
ing to  Christian  ethics,  but  if  he  were  considering  nothing 
except  his  own  happiness,  would  not  such  happiness  be 
imperilled  tremendously  were  it  achieved,  if  but  for  a  brief 
season,  at  the  expense  of  others?  Daffy  had  known  him 
better  than  he  had  known  himself.  To  think  of  her  except 
as  a  faithful  friend  was  an  offence  against  decency  and 
humanity. 

Travelling  round  and  round  a  vicious  circle,  he  returned 
always  to  this  point,  the  impossibility  of  inflicting  such 
a  wound  upon  a  man  who  had  shouldered  his  burdens, 
and  borne  them  in  silence  during  sixteen  years. 

He  gazed  upward  at  the  over-arching  boughs.  Upon 
this  very  spot  he  had  entreated  Omnipotence  to  descend 
from  heaven  to  talk  with  him.  And  he  had  believed  fer- 
vently that  Omnipotence  would  come,  that  Personal  God 
whom  he  had  imagined  as  sitting  upon  a  great  golden 
throne,  surrounded  by  angels  and  archangels,  listening  eter- 
nally to  their  glad  hosannas.  And  when  nothing  happened, 
the  first  doubt  had  crept  into  his  mind. 

What  did  life  without  Daffy  mean? 

He  knew  that  all  the  myriads  who  have  loved  and  lost 
must  have  asked  this  question  and  answered  it  according 
to  the  lights  burning  within  them. 

What  lights  burned  within  him? 

Let  him  consider,  dispassionately  if  it  were  possible,  the 
claims  of  the  spirit  as  opposed  to  the  claims  of  the  flesh. 
Where  and  when  they  worked  harmoniously  together,  the 
very  angels  in  heaven  might  envy  such  a  partnership.  He 
did  not  doubt  that.  Never  could  he  accept  the  idiotic 
teaching  of  the  Early  Fathers,  their  abasement  of  Woman, 
their  futile  counsels  of  celibacy.  To  maintain,  as  St.  Paul 
did,  that  the  single  life  was  best  meant  the  negation  of 
life  itself  and  its  continuance.  Tim  was  as  sure  of  this 
as  a  man  can  be.  His  married  life  sealed  the  conviction. 
Nevertheless,  considering  flesh  and  spirit  apart,  each  in 
376 


Reconstruction 

its  particular  manifestations,  could  he  tabulate  results,  set 
them  down  in  his  own  mind,  and  arrive  at  some  definite  con- 
clusion concerning  them?  He  selected  two  typical  cases — 
Ivy  Jellicoe  and  the  Vicar.  Ivy  was  almost  wholly  animal ; 
the  Vicar  might  be  regarded  as  a  saint.  Ivy's  nature  had 
made  her  neglect  her  child  and  driven  her  to  a  life  of 
shame.  The  Vicar's  nature  had  impelled  him  as  irresistibly 
to  adopt  Ivy's  child  and  to  labour  unceasingly  for  the  wel- 
fare of  others.  Apart  from  creeds  and  standards,  con- 
sidering the  benefit  to  the  human  race  alone,  with  no  thought 
of  a  hereafter,  was  it  the  flesh  of  Ivy  or  the  spirit  of  the 
Vicar  which  had  triumphed?  A  child  could  answer  such 
an  absurd  question. 

And  leaving  others  alone,  concentrating  his  intelligence 
upon  his  own  experience,  had  the  gratification  of  fleshly  de- 
sires brought  him  any  happiness  commensurate  with  the 
pure  joys  which  are  spiritual? 

He  wrestled  with  this  eternal  problem.  The  answer 
depends  entirely  upon  the  nature  of  the  man  who  asks  it. 
The  animal  man  says  "Yes"  at  once ;  the  saints  and  prophets 
thunder  out  a  "No"  as  positive,  while  men  such  as  Tim 
stand  at  the  cross  roads  and  gaze  down  each,  straining  their 
eyes  to  behold  whither  they  lead.  So  it  has  ever  been, 
and  so  it  must  be  till  the  end. 

"I  must  go  back  a  little,"  thought  Tim. 

With  his  imagination  and  memory  such  a  journey  into 
the  past  was  easy.  He  saw  himself  as  a  boy,  with  no  ob- 
scuring mists,  with  none  of  that  self-absorbment  so  natural 
to  youth,  which  dims  a  vision  of  themselves  as  others  see 
them.  How  thanklessly  he  had  accepted  all  that  the  Vicar 
had  given  to  him,  time — long  hours  after  his  own  work 
was  done  devoted  to  teaching  Latin  and  mathematics — 
money — generous  gifts  out  of  a  slender  purse — -and  a  love 
and  tenderness  that  never  failed. 

Was  he  prepared  to  do  half  as  much  for  Jack? 

With  what  writhings  and  torment  of  conscience  he  com- 
puted these  mere  beginnings  of  his  debt  to  another. 

377 


Timothy 


He  left  the  cathedral  a  very  unhappy  man,  with  civil 
war  raging  in  his  heart,  but  conscious  that  the  victory  in 
the  end  would  not  be  to  the  flesh.  Two  duties  had  to  be 
accomplished :  he  must  see  Daffy,  and  he  must  acknowledge 
his  son,  tell  his  wretched  story  once  more  to  the  person 
most  concerned,  the  joyous,  innocent  youth. 

But  a  duty  far  more  difficult  and  likely  to  prove  much 
more  grievous  and  harassing  imposed  itself  first. 

He  must  find  out  what  had  become  of  Ivy. 

That  afternoon  he  walked  to  Lanterton,  passing  through 
the  pretty  coppice  where  he  had  met  Ivy  for  the  last  time. 
It  was  carpeted  with  primroses ;  the  bracken  was  begin- 
ning to  unfold  its  fronds ;  the  oaks,  later  than  the  beeches, 
exhibited  a  russet  tint  of  foliage,  still  shewing  their  branches 
finely  articulated  against  a  blue  sky. 

Tim  knew  that  John  Jellicoe  was  alive  and  living  in  the 
same  cottage.  From  a  tavern-keeper  at  Lanterton  he 
learned  also  that  Jellicoe  was  likely  to  be  working  in  his 
garden. 

He  approached  the  cottage.  It  presented  a  somewhat 
dilapidated  appearance  like  all  the  other  cottages  in  this 
village  of  unsavoury  reputation.  A  stranger  might  have 
divined  that  the  landlord  was  of  those  who  afford  object- 
lessons  to  demagogues  striving  to  set  class  against  class. 
Loafers  hung  about  the  three  taverns ;  the  cottage  gardens 
were  ill-cared  for;  gates  and  palings  were  rotten  with  age; 
thatched  roofs  were  covered  with  damp  moss  and  lichen, 
picturesque  to  the  eye  of  an  artist,  but  eloquent  to  Tim 
of  miserable  conditions  beneath. 

In  the  Jellicoe  garden  an  old  man  was  sitting  upon  a 
stool,  smoking  his  pipe  and  staring  at  a  row  of  hives,  count- 
ing, possibly,  May  swarms  which  might  be  the  equivalent 
of  much  ale  and  tobacco. 

"Yes,  I  be  Jack  Jellicoe;  who  be  you?" 
378 


Reconstruction 

This  was  Ivy's  father ;  Jack's  grandfather,  much  changed 
from  the  once  stalwart,  handsome  poacher;  still  defiant 
in  voice  and  manner,  obviously  a  ne'er-do-well. 

"I  am  Timothy  White." 

The  old  man  stared  at  him  sullenly.  For  the  moment 
the  name  conveyed  nothing.  Tim  passed  through  a  wicket- 
gate,  and  stood  beside  him.  The  old  man  remained  seated, 
looking  up  at  Tim,  blinking  and  frowning. 

"I  got  your  girl  Ivy  into  trouble." 

"Ah !  I  mind  that.  So  'ee  did,  so  'ee  did."  He  laughed 
coarsely.  "Many  a  year  ago  that  was,  to  be  sure !  I  mind 
me  comin'  home,  comin'  out  o'  gaol,  yes,  and  my  old  missis 
tellin'  me  the  tale.  And  bright  an'  early  next  day  I  marches 
over  to  Little  Pennington.  They  had  the  law  o'  me,  damn 
'em !  for  snarin'  a  few  hares ;  and  I  meant  to  have  the  law 
of  'ee  for  poachin'  in  my  preserves !  Haw !  Haw !  But  t' 
parson  played  the  man.  Yes;  he  did.  I'll  say  that  for  'un. 
He  paid  up  fair  an'  square.  Now,  Mister  Timothy  White, 
what  be  you  wantin'  rakin'  up  things  as  was  settled  years 
and  years  ago?" 

He  stood  up,  a  gaunt,  fierce  old  man,  staring  derisively 
into  Tim's  face. 

"Where  is  Ivy,  Mr.  Jellicoe?" 

"Haw !  Why  should  I  tell  'ee,  if  I  knawed,"  he  added 
slyly.  "The  baggage  went  away  from  here,  takin'  her  trou- 
ble with  her.  She  never  come  back.  Not  likely." 

Tim  said  quietly : 

"I  will  make  it  worth  your  while  to  tell  me  where  Ivy 
is  now,  if  you  know." 

Jack  Jellicoe  scratched  his  head;  he  licked  thirsty  lips; 
then  he  replied  grimly : 

"She  be  gone  to  hell." 

Tim  winced;  and  the  man  saw  it. 

"Did  'ee  hope  to  hear  she  was  in  heaven?" 

"I  want  to  help  your  daughter  if  I  can." 

"Sit  'ee  down,  sir.  I'll  be  back  afore  the  sun  touches 
yon  cloud." 

379 


Timothy 

Without  another  word,  he  shambled  into  the  house.  Tim 
heard  his  raucous  voice  calling:  "Mother,  mother!"  He 
remembered  his  last  visit,  when  Ivy's  mother  lay  desper- 
ately ill.  Evidently  she  was  still  alive.  Voices  were  heard, 
the  growl  of  the  man,  the  shrill,  querulous  tones  of  the 
woman.  Tim  was  unable  to  catch  the  sense  of  what  they 
were  saying.  He  wondered  whether  the  mother's  heart 
held  any  tenderness  for  the  child  who  had  never  come  back. 

Presently,  Jellicoe  returned.  His  face  had  a  smug,  sly 
civility  harder  to  endure  than  his  previous  defiance  and 
insolence. 

"I  beg  pardon  if  I  was  rough  to  'ee." 

"That  is  of  no  consequence." 

"What  be  this  information  worth,  sir,  if  I  may  make 
so  bold?" 

Tim  endeavoured  to  hide  his  disgust.  Jellicoe  reminded 
him  of  Ginty;  he  could  handle  such  rascals. 

"Tell  me  where  I  can  find  your  daughter,  and  I'll  give 
you  five  pounds,  neither  more  nor  less,  but  I  must  find 
her  first.  If  you  try  to  bargain  with  me,  I'll  deal  with 
your  wife  instead  of  with  you." 

Jellicoe,  with  a  lively  recollection  of  dealings  with  magis- 
trates, recognised  an  ultimatum.  He  said  cringingly: 

"A  thick  'un  on  account,  sir." 

"No." 

"  'Arf  a  thick  'un  then ;  we  be  terrible  pore  folk,  sir." 

Tim  gave  him  half  a  sovereign. 

"She  be  in  London  town,  sir." 

"Her  mother  has  her  address?" 

"She  be  in  a  'orsepital,  pore  girl.  Not  for  the  first  time, 
neither." 

Tim  wrote  down  the  name  of  the  hospital,  eliciting  a 
few  more  details.  Ivy,  it  seemed,  had  written  to  her  mother 
from  time  to  time.  Tim  guessed  that  she  had  sent  home 
a  little  money.  Mrs.  Jellicoe  had  sent  in  return  new-laid 
eggs.  That  was  all. 

Tim  returned  to  the  Vicarage  by  road.  He  had  no  stonv 
380 


Reconstruction 

ach  for  primroses  and  violets.  In  his  nostrils  was  the 
odour  of  disinfectants.  He  remembered  the  all-pervading 
smell  of  carbolic  acid  in  the  California  Woman's  Hospital. 


in 

He  travelled  to  London  upon  the  morrow.  At  Waterloo, 
upon  a  bookstall,  he  saw  "Dust,"  with  a  tag  attached  to  it : 
Absorbing  Novel  by  a  New  Writer!  And,  in  the  train, 
he  read  in  a  morning  paper  another  flattering  notice  of 
his  book,  and  the  reviewer's  assurance  that  he  had  "come 
to  stay." 

To  stay — for  what? 

Under  ordinary  circumstances,  London  would  have  chal- 
lenged and  engrossed  his  attention,  but  for  the  moment  he 
could  only  think  of  the  world's  capital  as  holding  two 
women — Daffy  and  Ivy.  Lady  Rokeby  had  returned  to 
Rokeby  House  for  the  season ;  Ivy  was  lying  in  a  hospital. 

The  hospital  was  in  Hammersmith.  Tim  sent  in  his  card 
to  the  house-surgeon,  a  tall,  curt,  overworked  young  man, 
who  had  no  time  to  waste  in  idle  talk.  From  his  lips  Tim 
heard  the  stark  truth.  The  woman  Jellicoe  lay  in  the  Bertha 
Dawson  ward,  a  ward  added  to  the  hospital  through  the 
generosity  of  a  certain  Miss  Dawson  who  had  devoted  her 
life  and  fortune  to  ameliorating  the  conditions  of  women 
well-named  "unfortunate."  Tirn  could  see  her,  although  it 
was  not  a  visitors'  day.  Recover?  Oh,  yes,  if  you  could 
call  it  that.  She  would  be  leaving  the  hospital  in  a  few 
days,  and — the  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Tim  followed  a  porter  down  a  long,  cool  corridor,  and 
up  a  flight  of  well-scoured  stone  steps.  There  the  porter 
left  him  with  a  nurse.  The  nurse  and  he  entered  the 
ward  together.  It  was  lofty,  admirably  ventilated,  with 
narrow  beds  upon  each  side,  and  tables  in  the  middle  cov- 
ered with  flowers.  The  nurse  said  proudly:  "You  must 


Timothy 

look  at  our  flowers,  sir.     This  is  the  prettiest  ward  in  the 
hospital." 

Tim  looked  at  the  faces  upon  the  pillows.  Many  of  the 
women  were  young,  some  were  very  pretty.  Perhaps  the 
prevailing  characteristic  was  a  look  of  weakness  and  fa- 
tigue dominated  by  a  strange  contentment. 

"This,"  said  the  nurse,  "is  Jellicoe." 

At  first  glance,  Tim  failed  to  recognise  her.  She  was 
lying  quite  still,  not  asleep,  but  with  eyes  closed.  Her  lashes, 
long  but  not  thick,  fringed  a  white,  sunken  pair  of  cheeks. 
The  lips  were  fuller  and  coarser;  the  hair,  which  he  re- 
membered so  bright  and  lustrous,  had  become  drab-coloured 
from  the  use  of  dyes.  It  seemed  artificial — dead!  Her 
once  plump  little  body  was  cruelly  thin. 

He  heard  the  nurse's  pleasant  voice : 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  Jellicoe." 

Ivy  opened  her  eyes,  staring  indifferently  at  Tim. 

"There's  a  chair,"  said  the  nurse. 

Tim  sat  down  as  she  bustled  away. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Ivy.  It  was  a  shock  to  find  that 
her  voice  had  changed;  the  life  had  gone  out  of  it. 

"You  don't  recognise  me?" 

He  spoke  very  gently,  almost  in  a  whisper ;  but  she  made 
no  sign,  evidently  searching  a  memory  which  must  hold 
many  indistinguishable  shadows  of  gentlemen.  She  said 
listlessly : 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come.  I'm  very  -comfortable. 
However  did  you  know  as  I  was  here?  I  suppose  Daisy 
told  you.  She's  been  awfully  good,  that  girl.  Was  Daisy 
with  me  when  I  met  you  ?" 

"No.  You  have  not  seen  me  for  a  long  time,  Ivy.  Can't 
you  remember  now?" 

Her  listlessness  was  astonishing;  curiosity  informed  it, 
however. 

"I'm  bad  at  names,  dear.    And  so  often  you  don't  give 
the  right  ones,  do  you?     But  I  ought  to  remember  your 
face,  because  it's  so  handsome.     In  the  Army,  are  you?" 
382 


Reconstruction 

"No." 

"Never  mind!  I'm  pleased  you  came.  Ain't  your 
eyes  blue?  Yes;  I've  seen  them  before.  And — if  you 
laughed !" 

"That  would  be  difficult." 

"I  remember  laughs.  I  always  liked  jolly  men.  I've 
had  my  good  times.  Make  me  laugh  now." 

"Ivy,  I  am  Tim  White.  I  have  been  out  of  England  for 
seventeen  years." 

It  was  horrible,  but  she  laughed,  the  most  mirthless  laugh 
that  Tim  had  ever  heard;  but  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
spoke  kindly: 

"I  ought  to  have  known  you,  Mr.  Tim.  You  ain't  changed 
so  very  much.  Yes  ;  I  ought  to  have  known  you  anywheres. 
However  did  you  find  me?" 

"I  went  over  to  Lanterton." 

"Hateful  place." 

Each  remained  silent.  Tim  held  her  hand,  pressing  it, 
wondering  what  he  could  say,  trying  vainly  to  read  her 
mind.  Her  look  at  him  was  piteously  vacant,  but  he  could 
discern  no  hatred  in  it,  only  a  childish  wonder.  Childish ! 
He  would  have  said  that  she  was  nearly  forty,  judging  by 
the  lines  upon  her  face. 

"Why  did  you  want  to  see  me,  Mr.  Tim?  I  ain't  much 
to  look  at  now,  am  I?" 

"You've  been  very  ill.  Your  colour  will  come  back."  He 
intended  to  withdraw  his  hand,  but  she  would  not  let 
it  go ;  she  became  more  animated — 

"You  do  look  fine,  so  big  and  strong.  Fancy  coming 
here  to  see  me !" 

"I  came  to  do  what  is  possible,  to  help  a  little,  to " 

He  was  too  moved  to  finish  the  sentence.    Ivy  nodded. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  whispered.  "We  had  some  rare  fun, 
didn't  we?  I  was  happier  at  the  Vicarage  than  I've  ever 
been  since.  Wasn't  I  fond  of  you  just!  It  all  comes  back. 
Mother  told  you  I  was  here?  Yes.  She  sends  me  nice 
country  eggs.  I  let  that  girl  over  there  have  one  yester- 

383 


Timothy 

day.  She  promised  me  another  to-day,  but  it  wasn't  fresh. 
Nice  trick  that,  eh  ?" 

She  glared  at  a  bed  across  the  ward.  Dimly,  Tim  appre- 
hended that  any  one  who  interfered  with  her  comfort 
aroused  resentment. 

"You  shall  have  plenty  of  new-laid  eggs  and  fresh  cream 
every  day  till  you  are  well  again." 

She  smiled  at  him,  thanking  him  with  effusion.  He  won- 
dered whether  she  was  thinking  of  their  child.  Tentatively, 
in  a  low  whisper,  he  asked  a  question : 

"My  father  looked  after  you  after  I  ran  away?" 

"Yes,  he  did,"  she  answered  shortly.  "He  meant  well, 
but  I  couldn't  stick  service  again.  He  got  the  child  into 
a  home.  Best  thing  for  it,  too.  Don't  look  so  glum,  Mr. 
Tim.  I  was  mad  with  you  for  getting  me  into  trouble,  but 
I  was  young  and  silly,  and  my  people  was  awful  to  me. 
It's  all  right  now.  If  it  hadn't  been  you,  it'd  have  been 
somebody  else.  That's  God's  truth — so  cheer  up!  I  was 
born — gay.  I  wanted  you  more  than  you  wanted  me. 
What  a  nice,  jolly  boy  you  was !  Such  a  dear,  till  you  got  to 
worrying  about  the  silly  old  future.  Bad  times  come  along 
soon  enough!  Tell  us  a  funny  story.  Make  me  laugh  as 
I  used  to.  Don't  pull  a  long  face!  What's  done  can't  be 
helped." 

Tim  set  himself  the  task  of  amusing  her.  That  was  what 
she  wanted.  He  told  her  about  his  experiences,  in  the 
foc'sle  of  The  Cassandra,  riding  a  brake-beam,  "battering" 
a  meal,  his  knifing  by  a  Greaser,  his  escape  from  Judge 
Lynch.  She  listened,  absorbed,  smiling  and  nodding  her 
head. 

"You  had  hard  times,  Mr.  Tim.  Just  like  me.  That's 
life.  The  rough  and  the  smooth.  Take  it  as  it  comes. 
Grin  and  bear  it." 

When  he  left  her,  promising  to  come  again,  she  thanked 
him  again  and  again — 

"You've  cheered  me  up;  yes,  you  have.  And  you  was 
the  first,  Mr.  Tim.  I  liked  you  best.  Daisy  tells  the  same 
384 


Reconstruction 

tale — ancient  history  with  us  girls.    I  wanted  a  bit  o'  fun, 
and  I  had  it.     No  complaints." 


IV 

The  house-surgeon  told  him  that  he  could  come  back 
any  afternoon  between  two  and  four.  Tim  said  hesi- 
tatingly : 

"When  she  leaves  here  I  should  like  to  do  something. 
Any  hint ?" 

The  young  man  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"That  sort  is  irreclaimable.  She  can  be  cockered  up 
into  a  sort  of  health,  not  the  real  thing.  I  give  her  ten 
years.  They  can't  exist  without  excitement." 

"Gay?" 

"What  a  word,  but  it  tells  the  tale." 

Tim  walked  back  to  his  hotel  through  Kensington  Gar- 
dens and  Hyde  Park.  He  decided  that  he  would  buy  an 
annuity  for  Ivy,  enough  to  keep  her  from  want;  from 
time  to  time  he  would  see  her,  whatever  her  life  might 
be.  To  the  end  it  was  humanly  certain  that  she  would 
prefer  chocolates  to  jobations,  fresh  eggs  to  stale  advice. 
To  reform  her,  according  to  Little  Pennington  notions,  was 
impossible.  Was  he  likely  to  succeed  where  his  father  had 
failed? 

He  could  not  go  straight  from  Ivy  to  Daffy,  too  great 
a  distance  lay  between  the  two  women.  But  he  wrote  to 
Daffy,  telling  her  that  he  was  in  London,  and  that  he 
would  call  at  ten  in  the  morning  upon  the  day  following. 

Rokeby  House  occupies  a  corner  of  Belgrave  Square, 
standing  austerely  by  itself,  with  a  garden  behind.  Time 
was  when  Tim  would  have  liked  to  live  in  a  stately  man- 
sion. All  such  ambition  had  passed  from  him.  The  mere 
thought  of  filling  such  a  house  with  chattering  guests  in- 
spired disgust. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  impressed  when  he  mounted  a  great 

385 


Timothy 


white-marble  staircase,  with  a  balustrade  which  had  come 
from  a  doge's  palace  in  Venice.  And  at  the  end  of  a  lovely 
saloon,  hung  with  French  tapestries,  Daffy  stood  waiting 
for  him  with  her  enigmatical  smile  upon  her  lips.  Her 
first  words,  when  they  found  themselves  alone,  struck  him 
as  perfectly  chosen: 

"We  remain  faithful  friends." 

"Yes,"  he  replied  calmly. 

Friendship  suffused  itself  from  her,  encompassing  her 
gracious  figure  with  an  aura.  Words  were  unnecessary; 
she  understood  what  he  felt,  what  he  had  undergone,  what 
he  must  still  undergo.  She  stood  before  him,  ready  to 
help,  with  eyes  softened  by  sympathy  and  brightened  by 
hope.  She  whispered : 

"You  have  not  shrunk,  Tim." 

That  was  true,  at  any  rate.  A  larger  view  of  life  had 
expanded  him.  Since  he  had  parted  from  her  he  had 
been  constrained  to  think  of  others.  If  life  was  to  be 
worth  the  living,  he  must  tread  humbly  the  narrow  path, 
not  the  broad  and  easy  way.  Daffy  would  walk  beside 
him. 

The  delightful  sense  of  intimacy,  which  he  always  experi- 
enced in  her  company,  enabled  him  to  tell  her  simply  what 
had  passed.  At  the  end  she  said: 

"Then  the  boy  doesn't  know  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

"It  will  be  easy  to  tell  him  now." 

"He  may  loathe  me." 

"Have  no  fear  of  that.  You  will  live  to  be  proud  of 
him ;  and  he  will  live  to  be  proud  of  you." 

She  spoke  tranquilly,  with  'comforting  conviction. 

"And  you,  Daffy?"' 

He  leaned  forward,  challenging  her  glance.  Had  she 
betrayed  a  sign  of  weakness,  passion  might  have  swept  the 
pair  of  them  to  the  bottomless  pit.  She  was  prepared  for 
the  question. 

"Alice  and  I  came  through  Dinard  on  our  way  home." 
386 


Reconstruction 

"Dinard?" 

"I  saw  Sir  Harry  Jocelyn,  and  the  lady  who  shares  his 
exile.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  knew  her  before  she  went  away 
with  him?  No.  Well,  I  remember  telling  you  that  her 
husband  refused  to  divorce  her.  She  calls  herself  Lady 
Jocelyn.  Even  in  Dinard  there  are  many  women  who  won't 
meet  her.  Harry  is  devoted,  poor  fellow,  but  he  confessed 
to  me  that  golf  was  their  principal  distraction  and  occu- 
pation." 

"The  common  round,  then,  doesn't  furnish  all  they  have' 
to  ask?" 

"They  are  miserably  unhappy.  I  would  have  shut  my 
eyes  to  that,  if  I  could.  You  and  I,  Tim,  can  throw  no 
stones  at  them.  And  in  their  particular  case,  they  had 
no  one  to  consider  except  themselves.  Yet  it  has  turned 
out  disastrously.  Time  must  make  things  harder  for  each 
of  them.  I  have  had  them  in  my  mind  ever  since." 

"But  you  would  have  come  to  me,  Daffy,  if  I  had  in- 
sisted and  gone  on  insisting?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  Your  want  of  me  might  have 
overpowered  judgment,  instinct,  everything.  Most  women 
are  like  that,  and  fortunately  few  men  know  it.  If  there 
had  been  nothing  left  in  all  the  world  for  you  but  me,  I 
feel  that  I  might  have  come  to  you,  and  together  we  should 
have  sunk,  Tim,  to  depth  beyond  depth,  because  I  am  I  and 
you  are  you.  The  Little  Pennington  influence  has  been 
too  great  for  each  of  us.  That  is  why  I  sent  you  back  to 
your  father.  Oh,  Tim,  I  must  let  you  see  my  heart  to-day, 
even  as  I  seem  to  see  yours.  Happiness  may  not  be  for 
us.  It  is  so  elusive  at  best.  Those  who  seek  it  most  un- 
wearyingly  are  those  who  never  find  it.  I  doubt  if  it  is 
ever  found  at  the  expense  of  others,  save,  perhaps,  by  men 
and  women  who  are  little  higher  than  the  beasts  of  the 
field.  Peace  remains,  Tim,  and  a  share  in  the  happiness 
which  flows  from  others.  You  have  your  son,  your  fa- 
ther, and  your  work.  I  believe  that  your  work  will  help 
you  and  others.  You  will  put  into  it  what  you  have  felt, 


Timothy 

the  enduring  beauty  of  things ;  you  will  fight  on  the  side 
of  the  angels,  and  it  will  be  well  with  you." 

"I  hope  so,"  he  said  humbly. 

He  told  her  about  his  visit  to  the  hospital,  and  repeated 
what  the  doctor  had  said.  Upon  this  unhappy  subject 
Daffy  knew  far  more  than  he  did ;  she  had  met  Miss  Daw- 
son,  had  worked  with  her  and  for  her. 

Daffy  said  sadly:  "Are  you  going  to  tell  Jack  about  his 
mother  ?" 

"No ;  I'm  not.    I  simply  can't." 

"It  is  for  you  to  decide,  but  I  think  you  are  right." 

"She  has  forgotten  him,  poor  soul!  as  I  did.  With 
greater  excuse,  too.  Her  only  friend  appears  to  be  a  girl 
called  Daisy.  I  must  see  her  and  arrange  something." 

"I  may  be  able  to  find  some  sort  of  retreat,  some  shelter." 

Presently  he  went  away,  feeling  terribly  bruised  and 
tired.  Like  Apollo,  he  had  pursued  Daphne;  and  she  had 
turned  herself  into  a  tree.  The  offer  to  find  shelter  brought 
to  his  mind  the  old  story.  He  could  see  himself,  hot  and 
weary,  sitting  in  the  cool  shade  which  she  provided. 


That  night,  at  his  hotel,  he  fell  a  prey  to  an  inevitable 
reaction.  Temperamentally,  he  was  the  least  morbid  of  men. 
Even  in  his  darkest  hours,  just  after  Magdalena's  death, 
he  had  clung  to  life  desperately,  furious  because  Fate 
had  dealt  cruelly  with  him,  but  with  fighting  instincts 
aroused  and  clamouring  for  expression.  Once,  long  ago, 
upon  the  wet  decks  of  The  Cassandra,  he  had  been  seized 
with  the  desire  to  plunge  into  the  yeasty  wake  and  find  ob- 
livion. That,  indeed,  was  the  mad  impulse  of  a  reckless, 
unhappy  boy,  which  had  passed  swiftly. 

To-night,  the  temptation  gripped  him  again,  with  subtle 
beguilement.  He  was  afraid  of  himself,  not  yet  able  to 
reckon  the  change  within  him,  the  new,  amazing  sense  of 
388 


Reconstruction 

self-detachment.  His  passion  for  Daffy  was  dead,  and 
with  it  seemed  to  have  died  other  interests  and  ambitions. 
The  Vicar  stood  forth  as  a  radiant  example  of  how  fine  life 
might  be  without  passion.  He  knew  with  a  conviction  that 
nothing  could  shake  hereafter  that  if  Daffy  and  he  had 
elected  to  ignore  consequence,  consequence  would  have 
been  less  complaisant  to  them.  Life  with  her,  however  sweet 
for  a  brief  time,  would  have  degenerated  into  bitterness 
and  remorse;  a  fine  symphony  murdered  by  the  perform- 
ers. Passion  was  incapable  of  compromise;  it  blessed  or 
it  blighted. 

He  reflected  ironically  that  he  was  indulging  himself  with 
catch-penny  platitudes. 

If  he  died  now,  if  he  sought  the  long  sleep,  the  merciful 
oblivion,  what  a  solution  of  the  problem  that  would  be! 
Such  an  end  could  be  accomplished  without  arousing  the 
suspicions  of  others.  To  die  painlessly,  to  escape  from 
woes  present  and  future,  to  refuse  the  drinking  of  dregs — 
the  disappointments,  the  futilities,  the  crass  stupidities  of  ex- 
istence— why  not  ?  He  could  provide  adequately  for  Ivy  and 
Jack ;  and  then  he  could  swim  out  to  sea  till  some  kindly  cur- 
rent carried  him  to  eternal  rest 


389 


CHAPTER   V 

TWILIGHT 
I 

room  assigned  to  Tim  in  the  huge  hotel  on  the 
A.  Thames  Embankment  overlooked  the  river.  Tim  sat 
at  his  open  window  watching  the  twinkling  lights  upon  the 
Surrey  side.  At  the  moment  when  he  was  most  tempted 
to  escape  from  himself,  he  heard  the  Westminster  chimes 
and  then  the  slow,  solemn  striking  of  midnight. 

A  small  thing  may  change  the  current  of  a  man's  thoughts. 
But  this  was  no  small  thing.  And  it  happened,  oddly 
enough,  to  be  a  first  experience,  for  he  had  never  paid  at- 
tention to  such  sounds  before,  although  he  was  acutely  sen- 
sitive to  symbolism  however  it  might  present  itself  to  his 
intelligence. 

A  new  day  was  at  hand. 

With  the  realization  of  this,  he  undressed  and  went  to 
bed,  but  he  lay  awake  listening  for  the  next  chime,  thinking 
of  the  bells  of  Little  Pennington,  which  had  been  rung  upon 
the  night  when  he  returned  home.  They,  too,  echoed  in  his 
mind,  evoking  the  memories  of  innumerable  Sundays,  when 
he  had  obeyed  most  reluctantly  their  insistent  summons. 

The  dawn  of  a  new  day! 

What  a  miracle  it  was,  this  eternal  resurrection  of  the 
hours,  this  triumph  of  the  present  over  the  past,  this  renas- 
cence of  light  and  warmth. 

He  stretched  himself,  acutely  conscious  of  physical  well- 
being,  knowing  that  he  was  "fit,"  in  the  very  prime  of  man- 
hood. The  sharp  reflection  of  the  thousands  in  bodily  pain 
who  must  be  listening  to  the  striking  of  the  hours  served 
390 


Twilight 

as  a  tonic ;  the  faces  of  the  women  in  the  B.D.  ward  floated 
before  him. 

"I  must  stick  it  out,"  he  thought. 

With  this  determination  gathering  strength  in  his  mind, 
he  fell  asleep.  When  he  woke,  the  black  humours  had  van- 
ished, he  could  wonder  why  he  had  entertained  them.  Some- 
thing new  and  fresh  took  their  place,  as  if  dew  had  fallen 
upon  him  during  the  night,  as  if  Spring  had  touched  him 
with  her  rosy  fingers. 

During  the  morning  he  called1  upon  Broad,  who  said 
that  Tders  were  coming  in  from  the  big  booksellers.  Tim 
read  a  somewhat  drastic  criticism  of  "Dust"  which  did  him 
no  harm,  still  further  quickening  his  fighting  instincts,  for 
the  reviewer  had  picked  out  all  the  blemishes  and  crudities 
of  the  novel.  Broad  said  genially  : 

"The  poor  devil  was  bilious.  As  a  rule  they're  kinder  to 
beginners.  Wait  till  you  sell  a  first  edition  of  ten  thousand ; 
then  you'll  get  it" 

From  Broad's  publishing  house  he  walked  to  the  Na- 
tional Gallery,  and  spent  a  profitable  two  hours  in  front  of 
a  dozen  masterpieces.  The  work  accomplished  by  others 
began  to  provoke  a  desire  in  him  to  take  up  his  pen  again. 
He  had  been  right  to  lay  down  a  too  facile  and  ineffective 
brush. 

"Could  he  work  in  Little  Pennington  ?" 

Time  and  experience  would  determine  that.  The  attempt 
must  be  made  patiently  and  sincerely.  Surely  in  that  peace- 
ful village  something  would  come  to  him,  some  emanation 
from  the  many  lives  so  interwoven  with  his  own.  Hope 
that  it  might  be  so  evoked  the  faith  necessary  to  bring  about 
such  a  consummation.  Such  thoughts,  flitting  in  and  out 
of  his  mind,  are  recorded  because  they  serve  to  shew  the 
change  in  Tim's  point  of  view.  Hitherto,  his  intelligences 
had  been  synthetic,  essentially  imaginative  and  creative.  A 
tremendous  shock  had  shaken  up  and  disintegrated  a  too 
selfish  philosophy,  compelling  him,  both  consciously  and  sub- 

391 


Timothy 

consciously,  to  take  cognisance  of  its  component  parts,  to 
analyse  them  separately,  and  then,  if  he  could,  to  piece 
them  together  so  that  they  would  present  a  different  pattern. 
To  an  impartial  student  of  psychology,  the  change  in  the 
man,  which  was  most  significant,  took  the  form  of  a  pro- 
found and  humble  distrust  of  himself. 


ii 

He  saw  Ivy  three  times  before  he  went  back  to  Little 
Pennington.  During  his  last  visit,  he  learned  that  Daffy  had 
come  to  the  hospital  bringing  with  her  flowers  and  an  offer 
of  shelter  not  only  for  Ivy  but  for  her  friend. 

"It  ain't  a  Home  for  the  Fallen,"  explained  Ivy.  "Me 
and  Daisy  couldn't  stand  that.  It's  a  cottage  in  the  coun- 
try. We  shall  just  love  it  for  a  month.  By  that  time  I'll 
be  strong  again,  and  fatter,  I  hope.  Dull,  yes ;  but  sweetly 
pretty.  She's  st  good  sort,  that  Lady  Rokeby.  Dropped 
no  tracks.  My !  Ain't  I  fed  up  with  them.  Made  me  laugh, 
too,  telling  me  about  a  dormouse  which  you  gave  her  when 
she  was  a  little  girl." 

"I  paid  a  shilling  for  it,"  said  Tim. 

"She  told  me  that  she  caught  it  by  the  tail,  and  all  the 
fur  come  off  in  her  'and.  And  then  the  dormouse  ate  up 
what  was  left  of  its  tail.  Ain't  that  funny?" 

She  laughed  mirthfully. 

Nothing  she  could  have  said  would  have  indicated  more 
clearly  her  amazing  irresponsibility,  her  incapacity  to  take 
things  seriously.  She  was  a  child  when  he  parted  from 
her ;  she  would  remain  childish  so  long  as  she  lived. 

When  he  took  leave  of  her  she  cried  a  little,  repeating 
the  old  phrase :  "Oh,  I  do  like  you :  you  are  a  dear.  It  was 
just  sweet  of  you  to  hunt  me  up." 

Then,  holding  her  thin  hand,  he  told  her  that  he  had 
bought  an  annuity  for  her.    If  he  expected  fervent  thanks, 
he  was  mistaken.    She  frowned  slightly,  as  she  asked : 
392 


Twilight 

"Does  that  mean  I'm  to  be  good,  to  go  back  to  Lanter- 
ton?" 

"No;  it  only  means  that  you  will  have  enough  to  live 
on,  enough  to  keep  you  from  want." 

She  smiled  again.    Tim  said  desperately': 

"Look  here,  Ivy.  God  knows  I'm  not  fit  to  preach  to 
you;  I've  been  through  Hell,  dear,  and  I'm  not  out  of  it 
yet.  But  I  believe  I  shall  get  out.  I'm  going  home  to  begin 
again.  Can't  you  do  the  same?" 

"Go  home?"    She  laughed  mockingly. 

"I  don't  mean  Lanterton.  This  friend  of  yours,  Daisy, 
seems  to  be  fond  of  you.  Couldn't  you  two  start  a  small 
shop?  Is  there  no  escape  from  a  life  which  must  kill  you 
both?" 

She  regarded  him  sourly. 

"That  sort  of  talk  gives  me  the  hump.  Escape?  S'pose 
I  don't  want  to  escape  ?  A  small  shop !  I  know  more  about 
small  shops  than  you  do.  Why,  it's  worse  drudgery  than 
service.  I  must  have  my  bit  o'  fun.  There!  That's  back 
of  everything.  Most  of  us  ain't  honest  enough  to  own  up. 
But  what's  the  use  of  my  humbuggin'  you?  I  2ove  my 
freedom — see?  I  lie  here  thinking  of — what?  I  told  the 
clergyman  who  visits  here,  and  he  nearly  had  a  fit.  He 
expected  me  to  be  howling  over  my  sins.  I  told  him  my 
mind  was  wandering  in  the  Empire  promynade.  And  so 
it  is.  Now  you  have  it.  No  complaints." 

As  he  was  going,  she  said  artlessly: 

"Mr.  Tim,  couldn't  you  get  me  a  dormouse?" 

He  promised  to  provide  a  dormouse. 


in 

It  was  impossible  to  think  of  this  poor  creature  as  a  bad 
woman,  generic  title  for  all  such  unfortunates  in  the  happy 
village  and  even  in  Lanterton.  Bad!  That  was  positive. 
A  "bad"  man  in  California  signified  one  who  liked  to  shoot 

393 


Timothy 

first  under  slight  provocation.  The  Greaser,  who  slipped 
a  knife  into  Tim  was  "bad."  Tim  bore  him  no  grudge  when 
he  looked  reflectively — as  he  did  sometimes — at  the  scar. 
The  Greaser  was  a  wild  animal;  little  Ivy — how  small  she 
looked! — was  a  tame  cat,  purring  when  you  offered  her 
cream  and  dormice,  shewing  her  claws  when  you  rubbed  her 
fur  the  wrong  way. 

And  she  was  the  mother  of  Jack. 

He  had  to  assimilate  this  fact  as  best  he  might,  but  the 
results,  both  in  his  own  case  and  the  boy's,  must  be  deemed 
something  of  a  triumph  for  environment  and  personal  in- 
fluence over  heredity. 

That  night  he  bared  his  soul  to  the  Vicar,  extenuating 
nothing  in  the  past,  making  no  pledges  for  the  future.  The 
old  man  listened  with  a  quiet  light  in  his  eyes,  saying  nothing 
till  Tim  had  finished. 

"I  want  to  stay  here  with  you  and  Jack.  I  want  to  know 
Jack.  I  want  him  to  know  me.  And  then  I  shall  tell  him 
that  he  is  my  son." 

"It  will  not  be  difficult,  my  boy." 

They  gazed  tranquilly  at  each  other.  Tim  saw  that  the 
Vicar  was  counting  his  sheaves,  the  corn  that  had  ripened 
after  long  years. 

"I  am  well  content,  Tim." 

It  was  so;  for  there  is  an  expression  upon  some  men's 
faces  which  can  never  be  feigned,  a  serenity  which  is  the 
seal  of  a  fruitful  life,  of  high  faith,  of  a  courage  that  never 
fails.  Beholding  this  look,  Tim  tasted  for  the  first  time 
a  happiness  not  his  own,  a  cooling,  satisfying  draught  from 
the  cup  of  another. 

The  Vicar  added  slowly: 

"I  have  prayed  that  this  hour  might  come.  I  can  go 
now  in  peace." 


394 


Twilight 


IV 

Alone  once  more,  Tim  swore  to  himself  that  this  peace 
should  not  be  imperilled  by  any  word  or  act  of  his.  He 
was  beginning  again,  with  an  open  mind.  Three  clauses 
in  the  Apostles'  Creed  reestablished  themselves  in  that  mind : 
the  forgiveness  of  sins,  the  communion  of  Saints,  and  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead. 

The  odd  whim  that  he,  a  nameless  man,  must  adopt  some 
name  which  fitted  him  touched  again  his  fancy.  He  would 
be  known  henceforward  as  Timothy  White,  and  it  was  the 
Vicar's  wish  that  Jack,  when  he  learned  the  truth,  should 
call  himself  White,  but  to  Tim  the  pseudonym  which  he 
had  adopted  was  that  he  really  felt  himself  to  be.  He  might 
be  young  as  men  reckon  years ;  he  might  achieve  much ;  but 
the  fires  of  youth  had  at  last  burnt  themselves  out. 

"Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  grey 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad." 

As  he  came  home  across  Pennington  Park,  the  grey  skies 
seemed  to  meet  and  fuse  in  the  grey  landscape;  the  ponds 
mirrored  a  silvery  radiance ;  in  the  west  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing behind  great  banks  of  clouds ;  some  tall  firs  were  sharply 
defined  against  a  patch  of  golden  light. 

Out  of  the  silence  peace  descended  upon  him.  Whether 
it  would  linger  with  him  or  not,  he  could  not  say.  , 


395 


